The Icarus Agenda

by Robert Ludlum

  “Are you certain?” asked Hassan, standing in the archway. “The accusation is inflammatory!”

  “I’m certain,” said Weingrass quietly. “I should have shot the bastard in that tent in Basrah.”

  “I beg your pardon?” The Bahrainian official was visibly shaken.

  “Never mind—”

  “No one has left the Sahalhuddin building!” said code Gray, walking forward into the archway.

  “You’re sure?”

  “I paid a taxi driver who was very willing to accept a considerable sum of money with a great deal more to come if he did my bidding. I call him every few minutes at a public phone. Their two cars are still there.”

  “Can you trust him?” asked Yaakov from the chair.

  “I have his name and license number.”

  “Doesn’t mean a damn thing!” protested Manny.

  “I told him that if he lied, I’d find him and kill him.”

  “I withdraw the statement, Tinker Bell.”

  “Will you—”

  “Shut up. What part of the Sahalhuddin does the Zareeba company occupy?”

  “The top two floors, if I’m not mistaken. The lower floors are leased by its subsidiaries. Zareeba owns the building.”

  “Convenient,” said Weingrass. “Can you get us the updated structural plans, including the fire and security systems? I read those things pretty well.”

  “At this hour?” cried the official. “It’s after three o’clock in the morning! I wouldn’t know how—”

  “Try a million dollars, American,” broke in Manny softly. “I’ll send it from Paris. My word.”

  “What?”

  “Split it up any way you like. That’s my son in there. Get them.”

  The small room was dark, the only light the white rays of the moon shining through a window high up on the wall—too high to reach, for there was no furniture except a low-slung cot with ripped canvas. A guard had left him a bottle of seeber-too ahbyahd, a numbing local whisky, suggesting that what faced him was better faced in a drunken stupor. He was tempted; he was frightened, the fear consuming him, causing him to sweat to the point where his shirt was drenched, his hair soaking wet. What stopped him from uncorking the bottle and draining it was the remnants of anger—and one last act he would perform. He would fight with all the violence he could summon, hoping, perhaps, in the back of his mind for a bullet that would end everything quickly.

  Christ, why did he ever think he could do it? What possessed him to believe that he was qualified to do what far more experienced people thought was suicidal? Of course, the question was the answer: he was possessed. The hot winds of hate were burning him up; had he not tried they would have burned him out. And he had not failed entirely; he had lost his life but only because he had achieved a measure of success. He had proved the existence of the Mahdi! He had hacked a trail through the dense jungle of deceit and manipulation. Others would follow; there was comfort in that.

  He looked at the bottle again, at the white liquid that would put him out of it. Unconsciously, he shook his head slowly back and forth. The Mahdi had said his gestures were as pathetic as his words. Neither would be pathetic on that plane flying over the shoals of Qatar.

  Each soldier of the Masada Brigade had understood from the beginning and each checked the plastic tape around his left wrist to make certain the cyanide capsule was in its small exposed bubble. None carried papers or any traces of identification; their “working” clothes down to the shoes on their feet and the cheap shell buttons on their trousers were all purchased by Mossad agents in Benghazi, Libya, the core center of terrorist recruitment. In these days of injected chemicals, the amphetamines and the scopolamines, no member of the Masada unit could permit himself to be captured alive where his actions could be even remotely connected to the events in Oman. Israel could not afford being held responsible for the slaughter of two hundred thirty-six American hostages, and the specter of Israeli interference was to be avoided even at the cost of the unholy suicide of each man sent to Southwest Asia. Each understood; each had held out his wrist at the airfield in Hebron for the doctor to secure the ribbed plastic tape. Each had watched as the doctor swiftly brought his left hand to his mouth where hard teeth and the soft rounded bubble met. A quick puncture brought death.

  The Tujjar was deserted, the street and lamps muted by pockets of mist drifting in from the Persian Gulf. The building known as the Sahalhuddin was dark except for several lighted offices on the top floor and, five stories below, the dull wash of the foyer neons beyond the glass entrance doors where a bored man sat at a desk reading a newspaper. A small blue sedan and a black limousine were parked at the curb. Two uniformed private guards stood casually in front of the doors, which meant that there was probably security at the rear of the building as well. There was: a single man. Codes Gray, Black and Red returned to the broken-down taxi two hundred yards west at the corner of A1 Mothanna Road. Inside, in the backseat, was the wounded Yaakov; in front, Ben-Ami and Emmanuel Weingrass, the latter still studying under the dashboard lights the structural plans of the building. Code Gray delivered the information through an open window; Yaakov issued their instructions.

  “You, Black and Red, take out the guards and get inside. Gray, you follow with Ben-Ami and cut the wires—”

  “Hold it, Eagle Scout!” said Weingrass, turning in the front seat. “This Mossad relic sitting beside me doesn’t know a damn thing about alarm systems except probably how to set ’em off.”

  “That’s not quite true, Manny,” protested Ben-Ami.

  “You’re going to trace precoded wires where they’ve been altered on purpose, leading to dummy receptacles just for people like you? You’d start an Italian festival down here! I’m going with them.”

  “Mr. Weingrass,” pressed code Blue from the backseat. “Suppose you begin coughing—have one of the attacks we’ve all sadly observed.”

  “I won’t,” answered the architect simply. “I told you, that’s my son in there.”

  “I believe him,” said Gray at the window. “And I’m the one who pays for it if I’m wrong.”

  “You’re coming around, Tinker Bell.”

  “Will you please—”

  “Oh, shut up. Let’s go.”

  If there had been a disinterested observer in the Tujjar at that hour, the following minutes would have appeared like the intricate movements of a large clock, each serrated wheel turning another, which, in turn, sent motion back into the frenzied momentum of the mechanism, no cog, however, flying out of sequence or making a false move.

  Codes Red and Black removed the two private guards in front before either knew there was a hostile presence within a hundred meters of him. Red took off his jacket, squeezed into the tunic of one of the guards, buttoned it, put on the visored cap, pulled it down, and quickly ran back to the glass doors, where he tapped lightly, holding his backside with his left hand, pleading in the shadows with humorous gestures to be permitted inside to relieve himself. Frustrated bowels are a universal calamity; the man inside laughed, put down the newspaper, and pressed a button on the desk. The buzzer was activated; codes Red and Black raced inside, and before the all-night receptionist understood the mistake he had made, he was unconscious on the marble floor. Code Gray followed, dragging a limp guard through the left door, which he caught before it swung shut, and behind him was Emmanuel Weingrass carrying Red’s discarded jacket. On cue, code Black ran outside for the second guard as Weingrass held the door. All inside, codes Red and Gray bound and gagged the three security personnel behind the wide reception desk while Black took a long capped syringe from his pocket; he removed the plastic casing, checked the contents level, and injected each unconscious Arab at the base of the neck. The three commandos then pulled the three immobile employees of the Sahalhuddin to the farthest reaches of the enormous foyer.

  “Get out of the light!” whispered Red, the command directed at Weingrass. “Go into the hall by the elevators!”

 
; “What …?”

  “I hear something outside!”

  “You do?”

  “Two or three people, perhaps. Quickly!”

  Silence. And beyond the thick glass doors, two obviously drunken Americans weaved down the pavement, the words of a familiar melody more softly spoken than sung. To the tables down at Mory’s, to the place we love so well …

  “Son of a bitch, you heard them?” asked Weingrass, impressed.

  “Go to the rear,” said Gray to Black. “Do you know the way?”

  “I read the plans—of course I do. I’ll wait for your signal and take out the last one. My magic elixir is still half full.” Code Black disappeared into a south corridor as Gray raced across the Sahalhuddin’s lobby; Weingrass was now in front of him heading for a steel door that led to the basement of the building.

  “Shit!” cried Manny. “It’s locked!”

  “To be expected,” said Gray, pulling a small black box from his pocket and opening it. “It’s not a problem.” The commando removed a puttylike gel from the box, pressed it around the lock and inserted a one-inch string fuse. “Stand back, please. It won’t explode, but the heat is intense.”

  Weingrass watched in amazement as the gel first became bright red upon firing, then the bluest blue he had ever seen. The steel melted before his eyes and the entire lock mechanism fell away. “You’re something, Tinker—”

  “Don’t say it!”

  “Let’s go,” agreed Manny. They found the security system; it was contained in a huge steel panel at the north end of the Sahalhuddin’s underground complex. “It’s an upgraded Guardian,” pronounced the architect, taking a pair of wire cutters from his left pocket. “There are two false receptacles for every six leads—each lead covering fifteen to twenty thousand square feet of possible entry—which, considering the size of the structure, means probably no more than eighteen wires.”

  “Eighteen wires,” repeated Gray hesitantly. “That means six false receptacles—”

  “That’s it, Tinker—forget it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “We cut one of those, we get a rock-muchacha band blaring in the street.”

  “How can you tell? You said the precoded wires were altered—for amateurs like Ben-Ami. How can you tell?”

  “Mechanics’ courtesy, my friend. The slob Joes who work on this stuff hate like hell to read diagrams, so they make it easier for themselves or others who have to service the systems. On every false wire they make a mark, usually with pincer pliers high up toward the main terminal. That way they call in after fixing the system and say they spent an hour tracing the falsies because the diagrams weren’t clear—they never are.”

  “Suppose you’re wrong, Mr. Weingrass? Suppose that here there was an honest ‘mechanic’?”

  “Impossible. There aren’t enough of them around,” replied Manny, taking a small flashlight and a chisel out of his right pocket. “Come on, pry off the panel; we’ve got roughly eighty to ninety seconds to snip off twelve leads. Can you imagine? That cheap bastard, Hassan, said these batteries are weak. Go on!”

  “I can use plastique,” said code Gray.

  “And with that heat set off every alarm in the place, including the sprinkler system? Meshuga! I’m sending you back to shul.”

  “You’re making me very upset, Mr.—”

  “Shut up. Do your job, I’ll get you a badge.” The architect handed code Gray the chisel he had taken from Hassan, knowing from the plans of the Sahalhuddin’s security it would be necessary. “Do it quickly; these things are sensitive.”

  The commando jammed the chisel below the panel’s lock and with the strength of three normal men pressed forward, snapping the panel open. “Give me the torch!” said the Israeli. “You find the wires!”

  One by anxious one Emmanuel Weingrass moved from right to left, the beam of light on each colored wire. Eight, nine, ten … eleven. “Where’s twelve?” yelled Manny. “I caught every false lead! There has to be one more! Without it they’ll all trigger off!”

  “Here. There’s a mark here!” cried code Gray, touching the seventh wire. “It’s next to the third false lead. You missed it!”

  “I got it!” Weingrass suddenly collapsed in a fit of coughing; he doubled over on the floor straining beyond his endurance to stop the seizure.

  “Go ahead, Mr. Weingrass,” said Gray gently, touching the old man’s thin shoulder. “Let it out. No one can hear you.”

  “I promised I wouldn’t—”

  “There are promises beyond our control of keeping, sir.”

  “Stop being so fucking polite!” Manny coughed out his last spasm and awkwardly, painfully got to his feet. The commando purposely did not offer assistance. “Okay, soldier-boy,” said Weingrass, breathing deeply. “The place is secure—from our point of view. Let’s find my boy.”

  Code Gray held his place. “Despite your less than generous personality, sir, I respect you,” said the Israeli. “And for all our sakes, I can’t permit you to accompany us.”

  “You what?”

  “We don’t know what’s on the upper floors—”

  “I do, you son of a bitch! My boy’s up there!… Give me a gun, Tinker Bell, or I’ll send a telegram to Israel’s Defense Minister telling him you own a pig farm!” Weingrass suddenly kicked the commando in the shins.

  “Incorrigible!” muttered code Gray without moving his leg. “Impossible!”

  “Come on, bubbelah. A little gun. I know you’ve got one.”

  “Please don’t use it unless I tell you to,” said the commando, lifting his left trouser leg and reaching down for the small revolver strapped behind his knee.

  “Actually, I never told you I was part of the Haganah?”

  “The Haganah?”

  “Sure. Me and Menachem had a lot of rough-and-tumbles—”

  “Menachem was never part of the Haganah—”

  “Must have been some other baldheaded fellow. Come on, let’s go!”

  Ben-Ami, the Uzi gripped in his hands in the shadows of the Sahalhuddin’s entrance, kept in touch by radio. “But why is he with you?” asked the Mossad agent.

  “Because he’s impossible!” replied the irritated voice of code Gray.

  “That’s not an answer!” insisted Ben-Ami.

  “I have no other. Out. We’ve reached the sixth floor. I’ll contact you when it’s feasible.”

  “Understood.”

  Two of the commandos flanked the wide double doors on the right of the landing; the third stood at the other end of the hall, outside the only other door with light showing through the crack below. Emmanuel Weingrass reluctantly remained on the marble staircase; his anxiety provoked rumblings in his chest but his resolve suppressed them.

  “Now!” whispered code Gray, and both men crashed the door open with their shoulders, instantly dropping to the floor as two robed Arabs at each end of the room turned, firing their repeating weapons. They were no match for the Uzis; both fell with two bursts from the Israeli machine pistols. A third and a fourth man started to run, one in white robes from behind the enormous ebony desk, the other from the left side.

  “Stop!” yelled code Gray. “Or you’re both dead!”

  The dark-skinned man in the robes of a lavish aba stood motionless, his glowering eyes riveted on the Israeli. “Have you any idea what you’ve done?” he asked in a low, threatening voice. “The security in this building is the finest in Bahrain. The authorities will be here in minutes. You will lay down your weapons or you will be killed.”

  “Hello there, garbage!” yelled Emmanuel Weingrass, walking into the room with effort as old men do when their legs do not work as well as they once did, especially after a great deal of excitement. “The system’s not that good, not when you’ve subcontracted five or six hundred.”

  “You!”

  “Who else? I should have blown you away years ago in Basrah. But I knew my boy would come back to find you, you scum of the earth. It was just a matter of time. W
here is he?”

  “My life for his.”

  “You’re in no position to bargain—”

  “Perhaps I am,” broke in the Mahdi. “He’s on his way to an unmarked airfield where a plane will fly him out to sea. Destination—the shoals of Qatar.”

  “The sharks,” said Weingrass quietly, in cold fury.

  “Ever so. One of nature’s conveniences. Now, do we bargain? Only I can stop them.”

  The old architect, his frail body trembling as he breathed deeply, stared at the tall, robed black man, his voice strained as he replied. “We bargain,” he said. “And by almighty God you’d better deliver or I’ll hunt you down with an army of mercenaries.”

  “You were always such a melodramatic Jew, weren’t you?” The Mahdi glanced at his watch. “There’s time. As is the custom on such flights, there can be no ground-to-air radio contact, no subsequent forensic examinations of a plane. They’re scheduled to take off with first light. Once outside I’ll place the call; the aircraft will not leave, but you and your little army of whatever-they-are will.”

  “Don’t even think about any tricks, you scumball.… We deal.”

  “No!” Code Gray whipped out his knife and lunged at the Mahdi, gripping his robes and throwing him over the desk. “There are no bargains, no deals, no negotiations whatsoever. There’s only your life at this moment!” Gray shoved the point of his blade into the flesh below the Chicagoan’s left eye. The Mahdi screamed as the blood rolled down his cheek and into his open mouth. “Make your call now or lose first this eye, then the other! After that it won’t matter to you where my knife goes next; you won’t see it.” The commando reached over, grabbed the phone on the desk and slammed it down beside the bleeding head. “That’s your bargain, scum! Give me the number. I’ll dial it for you—just to make sure it’s an airfield and not some private barracks. Give it to me!”