The Icarus Agenda

by Robert Ludlum

  “For starters, sir, terrorists make it a point to kill innocent people. Ordinary men and women who just happened to be there, kids with backpacks, employees—young and old alike—simply doing their jobs. Where’s your case, sir?”

  Kendrick studied the field agent, suddenly jolted, remembering Fairfax and the Hassans. “I apologize for a stupid and fatuous remark. I regret it deeply.”

  “What the hell,” said the CIA man, shrugging off his momentary anger. “We’re all stretched and too damned many labels are thrown around anyway.”

  They returned to the house, where Khalehla was speaking to the nurses on the porch. Whatever she was saying she had the rapt attention of the three women; they sat motionless in their chairs, their intelligent eyes riveted on “the representative from the State Department.” Evan and Manny walked in and crossed quietly to the bar while the CIA officer went to the guest room to check on a colleague and the prisoner.

  “I’ve explained everything, Congressman Kendrick,” said Khalehla, her voice official, “as far as I’m permitted to, of course, and these ladies have agreed to cooperate. One had a visitor arriving tomorrow, but she’ll call and tell him there’s a medical emergency and not to come.”

  “Thanks a lot,” muttered Weingrass, pouring himself a drink under Kendrick’s watchful gaze. “Now I’m a corpse.”

  “Thank you, Manny,” remarked the nurse in question dryly.

  “I want to thank all of you,” said Evan quickly. “Washington’s convinced this is an isolated incident, a young lunatic on the loose—”

  “So was Sirhan-Sirhan,” broke in the nurse who had driven into Mesa Verde to reach Gonzalez, “and the description didn’t change the results.”

  “I’ve told them the prisoner is being transferred back East under cover tonight and not to be concerned if they hear noises on the grounds or in the garage.”

  “Very pro,” mumbled Weingrass.

  “I only have one question,” said the third nurse, looking at Khalehla. “You mentioned that the quarantine was temporary.… Well, not that I’m about to be invited to the Grand Prix in Monte Carlo, but how long is temporary?”

  “Too many crowds during the Grand Prix,” interjected Manny, drinking. “You can’t cross the streets and the Bains de Mer go crazy.”

  “No more than a few days,” answered Kendrick, again speaking quickly. “They just want to run the usual checks.… And if you get that invitation, Manny will personally accompany you.”

  “Congressman, try Daffy Duck.”

  “Meshugah.”

  There was a sudden, startling commotion outside. Shouts were heard and a horn blared. “Get away from the windows!” shouted the CIA agent, racing through the living room. “On the floor! Everyone on the floor!”

  Evan lunged toward Khalehla, astonished to realize she had dropped between the throw rugs and was rolling over and over to the base of a sliding door, an automatic in her hand.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay!” yelled a voice from the front lawn.

  “That’s one of us,” said the man from the Central Intelligence Agency, on his knees, his weapon also in his hand. “What the hell—?” He got to his feet and ran into the living room with Kendrick following him. The massive front door opened and a startled well-dressed figure walked haltingly inside escorted by a park ranger. He carried a black medicine bag; it was open; it had been searched.

  “I never expected such a reception,” said the doctor. “I know we’re not always welcome, but this is a bit much.… Congressman, it’s such an honor.” They shook hands, the CIA agent watching, bewildered.

  “I’m afraid we haven’t met, have we?” asked Evan, equally confused.

  “No, we haven’t, but we’re neighbors, if approximately seven more miles into the hills is a neighbor. My name’s Lyons.”

  “I’m sorry about your reception. You’ll have to blame it on an overprotective President. What is it, Dr. Lyons? Why are you here?”

  “Because he wasn’t there,” replied the intruder, smiling gamely. “I’m Mr. Weingrass’s new doctor. If you’ll check his schedule, he was to be in my office in Cortez at four o’clock this afternoon. He never arrived and we couldn’t reach him on the telephone, so as this house is on the way to mine I thought I’d drop in and see if there was a problem.” The physician stopped and reached into his pocket, taking out an envelope. “Incidentally, in line with those overprotective measures, here’s my clearance from the Walter Reed Hospital, countersigned by the proper officials in the administration. I’m to show this to Mr. Weingrass and his nurses, or at least the one who accompanied him to my office. He’s all right, isn’t he?”

  “Manny!” yelled Kendrick irritably.

  Weingrass appeared in the veranda archway, a drink in his hand. “Why are you screaming at me?”

  “Weren’t you supposed to be at the doctor’s office this afternoon?”

  “Oh, yeah, somebody called last week—”

  “It was my receptionist, Mr. Weingrass,” explained Dr. Lyons. “She said you wrote it down and agreed to be there.”

  “Yeah, well, I do that now and then, but I feel fine, so why trouble you. Also, you’re not my doctor.”

  “Mr. Weingrass, your doctor passed away several weeks ago from a cardiac seizure. It was in the papers and I know you received an announcement of the funeral.”

  “Yeah, well I don’t go to those, either. Mine’s overdue.”

  “Nevertheless, as long as I’m here, why don’t we have a look?”

  “What are we looking for?”

  “A little tub-thumping and a short blood sample for the lab.”

  “I feel fine.”

  “I’m sure you are fine,” agreed Lyons, nodding. “It’s just routine and won’t take more than a couple of minutes.… It really is an honor to meet you, Congressman.”

  “Thanks very much.… Go on, Manny. Do you want one of the nurses to assist you, Doctor?”

  “It doesn’t really matter—”

  “So she can wax lascivious over my naked chest?” protested Weingrass, interrupting. “Come on, Doc. You tap around my ribs and go out and buy yourself a Cadillac.”

  “At least a Ferrari,” countered Lyons, smiling at Kendrick.

  Emmanuel Weingrass and his new doctor walked down the stone hallway toward the bedroom.

  30

  It was ten minutes past one in the morning, and exhaustion hung like circles of dead heavy mist throughout the house in Mesa Verde. The CIA field agent, his eyes dark with fatigue, walked onto the enclosed porch, where Evan and Khalehla sat on the leather couch diagonally across from Manny in his recliner. The three nurses had left, each to her own room, each having been dismissed from duty for the rest of the night; the presence of armed guards patrolling the grounds outside had stretched their nerves. The patient would survive sleep without being looked in on every half hour. Dr. Lyons had guaranteed it.

  “Washington’s anxious,” announced the weary intelligence officer. “The schedule’s been moved up, so I’m going down to the airport for the van now. The plane should be here in about an hour, which means we don’t have much time. They want that bird to come in and get out.”

  “The tower down there doesn’t operate all night unless by prearrangement,” said Kendrick. “Have you thought about that?”

  “Hours ago, in time for your flight from the Bahamas. The Air Force flew over a team of controllers from Colorado Springs. The cover’s an AF training maneuver cleared through your office. Nobody objects and no one questions.”

  “How come?”

  “Because you’re you, sir.”

  “Is there anything we can do here?” asked Khalehla quickly, before Evan could make a comment.

  “Yes, there is,” answered the field agent. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d rather not have anyone up when I get back. We’ve got this thing worked out by the numbers, and I mean fractions, so the fewer distractions the better.”

  “How are you going to handle those cow
boys from the park outside?” said Weingrass, grimacing but obviously not from the question he asked. “I put my head out the door a couple of times before these two got here and they rushed up to me like I was a runaway bear.”

  “They’ve been told a foreign VIP is arriving to see the Congressman—in fact, that’s the reason they’re here. And since the meeting is highly confidential—and in deference to the visitor who wants to keep it that way, all patrols will remain out of sight. They’ll be on the sides of the house and down at the gazebo.”

  “They bought that nonsense?” interjected Weingrass.

  “They have no reason to question it.”

  “Because he’s him,” agreed Manny, nodding.

  “And because they’re being paid three hundred dollars apiece for losing a night’s sleep.”

  “Very pro, Mr. Containment. You’re better than I thought.”

  “I have to be.… Well, if I don’t see you again, it’s been a real pleasure meeting you, Congressman. Someday I’ll be able to tell my kids about it.… No, please don’t get up, sir, I’ve got to run. You, too, Miss Official, as Mr. Weingrass would say.… And you, Manny, I tell you, it’s been an experience. I think I’m glad you’re on our side.”

  “You should be, you need all the help you can get.… Ciao, young man. Have a good track-down and if the odds are only five to one against you, you’ll win.”

  “Thanks, Manny, I intend to.” The intelligence officer turned briefly to Evan and Khalehla on the couch. “I mean that,” he added quietly. “I heard the reference to Fairfax in the car and let it pass, but it wasn’t easy. You see, I’m the only one here who knows what happened; it’s why I insisted on leading this team. My older sister’s son, my nephew—I brought him into the Agency—he was part of that unit. I intend to have a damned good track-down.” The CIA man left quickly.

  For starters, sir, terrorists make it a point to kill innocent people. Ordinary men and women who just happened to be there, kids with backpacks, and employees—young and old alike—simply doing their jobs. Where’s your case, sir?

  “How terrible for him,” said Khalehla. “He must feel such hurt, such guilt.”

  “Which of us doesn’t?” asked Kendrick, his voice floating, then stopped abruptly with a sudden, forced intake of air.

  “You can’t blame yourself for what’s happened,” insisted Khalehla.

  “Happening,” exclaimed Kendrick. “It’s happening! How the hell did these people get into the country? Who let them in? Where are our so-called brilliant security measures that can catch fifth-rate Soviet agents we exchange for set-up reporters in Moscow because it’s good PR, but we can’t stop a dozen killers who come in to kill? Who makes it possible?”

  “We’re trying to find out.”

  “You’re a little late, aren’t you?”

  “Stop it!” ordered Weingrass, leaning forward, punching the space in front of him with his forefinger. “This girl has nothing to do with what you’re talking about and I won’t have it!”

  “I know that!” said Kendrick, reaching for Khalehla’s hand, “and she knows I know it. It’s just that everything’s so insane—I feel so helpless, so frightened. Goddamnit, how many others have to be killed? We can’t stop these people! They’re maniacs and they’re running loose and we’ll never find them!” Evan lowered his voice, his eyes filled with pain, leveled at the field agent from Cairo. “Any more than we’ve found the bastards who stole that ‘theft-proof’ Oman file and splattered me all over the world. How long has it been—eight, ten weeks? We’re no closer than when we began. At least now we know why they did it. It wasn’t to make me a hero, or to promote my so-called career as a political contender for Christ knows what … it was to set me up for the kill! A ‘vengeance death’ I believe is the literal Arabic translation. The point is we’re not getting anywhere!”

  “Listen to me,” said Khalehla softly. “I’m going to say something I probably shouldn’t, but sometimes we break a rule because hope is important, too.… Other things have happened that you don’t know about—are happening, as you say—and each new piece of information brings us a step closer to the truth about this whole horrible mess.”

  “That’s pretty cryptic, young lady.”

  “Manny, try to understand. Evan does because we have an agreement. He knows that there are times when I can’t explain things.”

  “May an old man who’s been a resident in your territory once or twice before ask why?”

  “If you mean your work with Mossad, you shouldn’t have to—forgive my being blunt.… The basis is an imperative need-to-know, because what you don’t know you can’t reveal.”

  “The Amytals and the Pentothals?” asked Weingrass. “In the old days, scopolamine? Come on, my lovely girl, we’re not in the back streets of Marrakech or the partisan mountains of Ashot Yaaqov. Who would use chemicals on us here?”

  “I’m sure that young prisoner Evan identified, the one who’s on his way to a clinic in Virginia, probably felt the same way. Within twenty-four hours his entire life will be on tape.”

  “Not applicable,” insisted Weingrass.

  “Perhaps not, but something else is. As of six hours ago we have a trace—a possible trace—that may take us higher up in this government than any of us wishes. If we’re wrong, Congressman Kendrick of Colorado can’t be a part of it; quite simply, he can’t know anything. He has total deniability. As a result, neither can you, Manny.”

  “That radio transmission on the plane,” said Evan, looking hard at Khalehla. “There was no station chief in Cairo, was there?” Khalehla shrugged, releasing his hand and reaching for her drink on the coffee table in front of the couch. “All right, no specifics,” continued Kendrick, “but let’s talk about the truth—forget deniability, which I don’t give a damn about. What kind of truth are you after? Give me an overview—I’ve heard that word ad nauseam in Washington. What kind of people are doing what to whom? Whoever they are, they’ve killed my friends—our friends. I have a right to know.”

  “Yes, you do,” said Khalehla slowly, sitting rigid on the couch, looking alternately at Evan and Emmanuel Weingrass, finally settling on Kendrick. “You said it yourself, questioned it yourself—part of the truth, anyway. Someone did let these killers in and made it possible for them to kill. Passports were provided without restrictions, and as I can easily picture their general appearances because I’m one of them, those false papers had to be terribly good to get past the antiterrorist experts we and our allies have at every immigration point here and abroad, including the Soviets, I might add. Beyond those papers are the logistics, the lines of supply without which terrorists can’t operate. Weapons, ammunition, money, driver’s licenses, and pre-rented vehicles; locations where they can hide and prepare themselves, even down to the most up-to-date clothing made in this country in case they’re arrested and interrogated. Then there are such items as train and airline reservations, all made in advance, the tickets delivered before they walk into a terminal, except when they’re on a platform or in a flight lounge at the last minute. You see, nothing is inconsequential to these people; everything is vital down to the last detail for the success of any given mission.” Khalehla paused, shifting her gaze between both men. “Someone’s made all of these things available to them, and whoever it is, or whoever they are, they shouldn’t be where they are in this government or have the accesses they have. It’s more important than I can ever explain that they be found.”

  “You said that about those who stole the Oman file.”

  “And you believe they’re the same people.”

  “Aren’t they? It’s pretty obvious to me.”

  “Not to me.”

  “The setup. It’s the explanation for a revenge kill. Me.”

  “Suppose they’re separate,” insisted Khalehla. “One giving birth to the other? It’s been ten weeks, remember? The impetus for killing you in the heat of vengeance that is intrinsic to jaremat thaár has passed.”

  �
��You just pointed out all the details that had to be put in place. That takes time.”

  “If they have the resources to do what they’ve done in ten weeks, they could do it in ten days, Evan.”

  Emmanuel Weingrass held up his hand, palm forward; it was a command for quiet and he expected to be obeyed. “You are now telling us that instead of one enemy my son has two? The Arabs from the Baaka Valley and someone else over here who works with them or against them? Are you making sense, my lovely child?”

  “Two forces, both elusive, one a deadly enemy, certainly … the other I just don’t know. I only know what I sense, and I’m not being evasive. When MJ doesn’t have the answers, he keeps blaming it on what he calls ‘gaps.’ I guess that’s what I’m falling back on. There are too many gaps.”

  Weingrass grimaced again, a silent belch filling his gaunt cheeks. “I accept your perceptions,” he said. “If Mitchell ever throws you out, I’ll find you reasonable employment with the Mossad, avoiding a certain accountant who would let you starve.” The old architect suddenly breathed deeply and leaned back in his chair.

  “Manny, what is it?” said Khalehla, her question causing Kendrick to turn his head, alarmed.

  “Are you all right?” asked Evan.

  “I’m ready for the Olympics,” replied Weingrass. “Except that one minute I’m cold, the next minute I’m hot. It was all that running around in the woods like a kid. Lyons told me my systolic was a little high, or maybe it was the other one, and that I had a few bruises where I shouldn’t have.… I told him I was wrestling bulls on the south forty. I’ve got to rest these bones, children.” The old man got out of his chair. “Would you believe, Khalehla, that I’m not a kid?”

  “I think you’re not only very young, but also remarkable.”

  “Extraordinary is more appropriate, actually,” offered Manny. “But right now I feel the effects of my virtuosity. I’m going to bed.”

  “I’ll get one of the nurses,” said Kendrick, starting to rise.

  “For what? So she can take advantage of me, ravage me? I want rest, boy!… And let them rest, Evan. They’ve been through a lot and they don’t even know what they’ve been through. I’m fine, just tired. Try running in the Olympics when you’re sixty.”