“His name is Kendrick. Evan Kendrick. He’s the representative from the Ninth District of Colorado.”
“A congressman?” exclaimed Jacob Mandel as the photograph of Kendrick on the Capitol’s steps remained on the screen. “I’ve never heard of him, and I thought I knew just about everyone up there. By name, of course, not personally.”
“He’s relatively new, sir, and his election was not widely covered. He ran on the President’s party line because in that district the opposition is nonexistent—winning the primary is tantamount to election. I mention this because the Congressman does not appear to be philosophically in tune with numerous White House policies. He avoided national issues during the primary.”
“Outspokenness aside,” said Gideon Logan, “are you suggesting he has the independence of someone like, say, Lowell Weicker?”
“In a very quiet way, yes.”
“Quiet and new and with a somewhat less than imposing constituency,” said Sundstrom. “From that point of view your anonymity’s safe. Too safe, perhaps. There’s nothing more dismissable in political prime time than a newly elected, unheard-of congressman from an unknown district. Denver’s in the First, Boulder the Second, and the Springs in the Fifth. Where’s the Ninth?”
“Southwest of Telluride, near the Utah border,” replied Jacob Mandel, then shrugging as if apologizing for his knowledge. “There were some mining stocks, very speculative, that we looked into several years ago. But that man on the screen is not the congressman we met and who tried rather desperately to convince us to underwrite the issues.”
“Did you underwrite them, sir?” asked Varak.
“No, we did not,” answered Mandel. “Frankly, the speculation went beyond the calculated risks of venture capital.”
“What you call in America a possible ‘scam’?”
“We had no proof, Milos. We just backed away.”
“But the congressional representative from that district did his best to enlist your support?”
“Indeed, he did.”
“That is why Evan Kendrick is now the congressman, sir.”
“Oh?”
“Eric,” interrupted Gideon Logan, shifting his large head to look at the academic inventor of space technology. “You said you knew him, at least knew his face.”
“I do, I’m sure I do. Now that Varak’s told us who he is, I think I met him at one of those interminable cocktail parties in Washington or Georgetown, and I distinctly remember that someone said there was quite a story behind him.… That was it. I never heard the story; it was simply a statement.”
“But Milos said that whatever story you had in mind wasn’t the one he was going to tell us,” said Margaret Lowell. “Isn’t that right?” she added, looking at Varak.
“Yes, madame. The remark made to Professor Sundstrom undoubtedly concerned the nature of Kendrick’s election. He literally bought it in anger, burying his opponent under an avalanche of local advertising and a series of expensive rallies that were more public circuses than political assemblies. It was said that when the incumbent complained that the election laws were being violated, Kendrick confronted him with his attorneys—not to discuss the campaign but, instead, his opponent’s performance in office. The complaints instantly stopped and Kendrick won handily.”
“One could say he puts his money where his indignation is,” remarked Winters quietly. “However, you have a far more fascinating bit of information for us, Mr. Varak, and since I’ve heard it, I’ll repeat what I said before. It’s extraordinary. Please go on.”
“Yes, sir.” The Czech pressed the remote control and with a muted slap the next photograph appeared on the screen. Kendrick and the Rotunda steps disappeared, replaced by an overview of hysterical crowds racing down a narrow street flanked by buildings of obviously Islamic character, past shops with signs in Arabic above them.
“Oman,” said Eric Sundstrom, glancing at Winters. “A year ago.” The historian-spokesman nodded.
The slides followed quickly, one after another, depicting scenes of chaos and carnage. There were bullet-ridden corpses and shell-pocked walls, torn-down embassy gates and rows of kneeling terrified hostages behind a rooftop screen of latticework; there were close-ups of shrieking young people brandishing weapons, their mouths gaping in triumph, their zealous eyes wild. Suddenly the rushing slides stopped and the attention of Inver Brass was abruptly riveted on a slide that seemed to have little relevance. It showed a tall, dark-skinned man in long white robes, his head covered by a ghotra, his face in profile, walking out of a hotel; then the screen was split, a second photograph showing the same man rushing across an Arabic bazaar in front of a fountain. The photographs remained on the screen; the bewildered silence was broken by Milos Varak.
“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, her mother 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. Other than that document, there’s nothing anywhere indicating 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 gotten 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 center 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 down—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, August 11, 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 a negative,” 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. 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-oriented streets in Masqat was supplanted by a typewritten page, the letters large, the lines triple-spaced. “Each slide,” continued Varak, “represents approximately one fourth 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 may have omitted specifics 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 honor 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 have done, try to fly too close to the sun and crash into the sea. And may God have mercy on our souls.”
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 kept opening and closing 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 Reflecting 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 positions on a dozen issues and they’re light-years better than eighty percent 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 pinne
d so many labels on me they cancel themselves out. They can’t pigeonhole me so they 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 cooperative 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 file 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 offense at that if you’re married to a two-toilet Irish detective.”
“Two-toilet—?” Kendrick looked up.
The Icarus Agenda Page 30
