“Really, MJ,” Rashad’s wife would exclaim. “I’m from California, remember? I’m the light-skinned one!”
Where had those days gone? Would they ever come back? Of course not. He ate alone at Christmas.
Payton’s red phone rang. His hand shot out, picking it up. “Yes?”
“He’s crazy,” yelled Adrienne-Khalehla. “I mean he’s nuts, MJ!”
“He’s turned you down?”
“Get off it. He wants to go see Bollinger!”
“On what grounds?”
“To play a fink! Can you believe it?”
“I might if you’ll be somewhat clearer—”
There was an obvious tugging at the telephone as several obscenities were hurled back and forth. “Mitch, this is Evan.”
“I gathered that.”
“I’m going inside.”
“Bollinger’s?”
“It’s logical. I did the same thing in Masqat.”
“You can win one and then lose one, young man. Once successful, twice burned. Those people play hardball.”
“So do I. I want them. I’ll get them.”
“We’ll monitor you—”
“No, it’s got to be solo. They have what you people call equipment—eyes all over the place. I’ve got to play it out by myself, the point being that I can be persuaded to fade from politics.”
“That’s too big a contradiction from what they’ve seen of you, heard of you. It wouldn’t work, Kendrick.”
“It will if I tell them part of the truth—a very essential part.”
“What’s that, Evan?”
“That I did what I did in Oman strictly out of self-interest. I was heading back to pick up the pieces, to make all that money I left behind. It’s something they’d understand, they’d damn well understand.”
“Not good enough. They’ll ask too many questions and want to confirm your answers.”
“None I can’t answer,” broke in Kendrick. “All part of the truth, all easily confirmed. I was convinced I knew who was behind the Palestinians and why—he’d used the same tactics on my company: the truth. I had connections with the most powerful men in the Sultanate and full government protection. Let them check with young Ahmat, he’d love to get that straightened out; his nose is still out of joint. Again, the truth, even when I was in the prisoner compound, where I was watched every minute by the police.… My objective throughout was merely to get the information I knew existed to nail a maniac who called himself the Mahdi. The truth.”
“I’m sure there are gaps that can trip you up,” said Payton, writing notes he would later shred.
“Not one I can think of, and that’s all that matters. I’ve heard the European’s tape; they’ve got billions riding on the next five years and can’t afford to weaken their status quo by one iota. It doesn’t matter that they’re wrong, but they see me as a threat to them, which under different circumstances I damn well would be—”
“What might those circumstances be, Evan?” interrupted the older man in Langley.
“What …? If I stayed in Washington, I imagine. I’d ride herd on every son of a bitch who plays loose with the government’s coffers and figures out ways to get around the laws for a few million here and a few million there.”
“A veritable Savonarola.”
“No fanaticism, MJ, just a goddamned angry taxpayer who’s sick and tired of all those screaming scare tactics designed to bleed the taxpayers for excessive profits.… Where was I?”
“A threat to them.”
“Right. They want me out of the way and I’ll convince them I’m ready to go, that I want nothing to do with this campaign to put me on the ticket … but I have a problem.”
“This, I assume, is the kicker?”
“I’m first and foremost a businessman, a construction engineer by training and profession, and the office of Vice President would provide me with a global posture I could never enjoy without it. I’m relatively young; in five years I’ll still be in my forties and as a former Vice President I’ll have financial backing and influence available to me all over the world. That’s a very tempting prospect for an international builder who intends to return to the private sector.… What do you think would be the reaction of Bollinger and his advisers, MJ?”
“What else?” said the director of Special Projects. “You’re emulating their own voices with just the right amount of ooze. They’ll offer you a five-year shortcut with all the financial resources you need.”
“That’s what I thought you’d say; that’s what I think they’ll say. But again, like any decent negotiator who’s made a fair share of money in his day, I have another problem.”
“I can’t wait to hear it, young man.”
“I need proof and I need it quickly so I can firmly reject the political committee out of Denver that’s priming Chicago for next week. Reject it before it gets off the ground and possibly out of control.”
“And the proof you require is a general commitment of sorts?”
“I’m a businessman.”
“So are they. They won’t put anything in writing.”
“That’s negotiable among men of goodwill. I want a meeting of intent with the principals. I’ll set forth my plans, vague as they are, and they can respond. If they can convince me that they’re trustworthy, I’ll act accordingly.… And I think they’ll be very convincing, but by then it won’t matter.”
“Because you’ll have the nucleus,” agreed Payton, smiling. “You’ll know who they are. I must say, Evan, it all sounds feasible, even remarkably so.”
“Just sound business practice, MJ.”
“However, I have a problem. At the outset, they’ll never believe that you’re going back over there. They’ll think you’re lying. The whole Middle East is too unstable.”
“I didn’t say I was going back next week; I said ‘one day,’ and God knows I wouldn’t mention the Mediterranean. But I will talk about the Emirates and Bahrain, Kuwait and Qatar, even Oman and Saudi Arabia, all the places in the gulfs where the Kendrick Group operated. They’re as normal as they’ll ever be, and as OPEC gets its act together it’ll be business and profits as usual. Like every West European construction outfit, I want part of the action and I want to be ready for it. I’m back in the private sector.”
“Good heavens, you’re persuasive.”
“Businesswise, I’m not far off the mark, either.… I’ve got the marbles, Mitch. I’m going in.”
“When?”
“I’m calling Bollinger in a few minutes. I don’t think he’ll refuse my call.”
“Not likely. Langford Jennings would burn his ass.”
“I want to give him several hours to gather his flock, at least the few he counts on. I’ll ask for a meeting late this afternoon.”
“Make it in the evening,” corrected the CIA executive. “After business hours, and be explicit. Say you want a private entrance away from his personnel and the press. It’ll convey your message.”
“That’s very good, MJ.”
“Sound business practice, Congressman.”
Lieutenant Commander John Demartin, U.S. Navy, was in jeans and a T-shirt, applying generous portions of cleaning fluid over the upholstery of his car’s front seat, trying with minimal success to remove the bloodstains. It was going to take a professional job, he concluded, and until it was done he would tell the kids he had spilled some cherry soda on the way home from the field. Still, the more he reduced the stains, the less it would cost—he hoped.
Demartin had read the report in the morning’s Union identifying him by name and stating that the authorities believed the wounded hitchhiker he had picked up was a drug death; the pilot, however, was not convinced. He was not on speaking terms with any drug dealers that he knew of, yet he could not imagine that too many of them were so polite as to offer to pay for soiling a seat. He assumed that such men, if wounded, would be in panic, not so controlled, so courteous.
Pressing down, Demartin scrubb
ed the rear of the seat again. His exposed knuckles touched something, something sharp yet instantly flexible. It was a note. He pulled it out and read it, reading beneath the bloodstains.
Urgt. Mx s’c’ty. Relay contct 3016211133 S-term
The last letters drifted off as if there had been no strength left to write them. The naval officer dragged himself out of the seat and stood in the driveway studying the note, then walked up the flagstone path to his front door. He went inside, proceeded into the living room and picked up the phone; he knew whom to call. Moments later a WAVE secretary put him through to the base’s chief of intelligence.
“Jim, it’s John Demartin—”
“Hey, I read about that crazy episode last night. What some fly-boys won’t do for a little grass.… You’re taking me up on the fishing Saturday?”
“No, I’m calling you about last night.”
“Oh? How come?”
“Jim, I don’t know who or what that guy was, but I don’t think he had anything to do with drugs. Then a few minutes ago I found a note creased into the seat where he was sitting. It’s kind of bloody but let me read it to you.”
“Go ahead, I’ve got a pencil.”
The naval officer read the awkwardly printed words, letters and numbers. “Does it make any sense?” he asked when he had finished.
“It … may,” said the intelligence chief slowly, obviously rereading what he had written. “John, describe what happened last night, will you? The article in the paper was pretty sketchy.”
Demartin did so, beginning with the observation that although the blond man spoke excellent English, he had a foreign accent. He ended with the hitchhiker’s collapse in front of the fruit stand. “That’s it.”
“Do you think he knew how severely he was wounded?”
“If he didn’t, I did. I tried not to stop for the telephone but he insisted—I mean, he pleaded, Jim. Not so much in words but with his eyes.… I won’t forget them for a long time.”
“But there was no question in your mind that he was coming back to the car.”
“None. I think he wanted to make a last call; even as he fell he reached up for the phone on the counter, but he was coming back.”
“Stay where you are. I’ll call you right back.”
The pilot hung up and walked to a rear window overlooking the small pool and outside patio. His two children were splashing about and yelling at each other while his wife reclined in a lounge chair reading the Wall Street Journal, a practice for which he was grateful. Thanks to her, they were able to live somewhat beyond his salary. The phone rang; he returned to it. “Jim?”
“Yes.… John, I’ll be as clear as I can and that’s not going to be too clear. There’s a fellow here on loan to us from Washington who’s more familiar with these things than I am, and this is what he wants you to do.… Oh, boy.”
“What is it? Tell me?”
“Burn the note and forget about it.”
The CIA officer in the rumpled suit reached for the small yellow package of M&M’s, the telephone held to his left ear. “You got all that?” asked Shapoff, otherwise known as Gingerbread.
“Yes,” replied MJ Payton, the word drawn out as if the information was both bewildering and startling.
“The way I read it, this guy, whoever he was, combined ‘urgent’ with ‘maximum security’ figuring that if he didn’t make it this navy officer would have enough sense to call Base Security rather than the cops.”
“Which is exactly what he did,” agreed MJ.
“Then Security would reach the ‘relay contact’ and deliver the message, thinking it’d be channeled to the right people.”
“The message being that someone called code name S had been terminated.”
“We got an operation with a code-S?”
“No.”
“Maybe it’s the Bureau of Treasury.”
“I doubt it,” said Payton.
“Why?”
“Because in this case the relay is the last stop. The message wouldn’t have gone any further.”
“How do you know that?”
“Area code three-zero-one is Maryland, and unfortunately I recognize the number. It’s unlisted and very private.”
Payton leaned back in his chair, briefly understanding how alcoholics felt thinking they could not get through the next hour without a drink, which meant a step away from reality. How ludicrously, illogically logical! The voice heard by the ears of presidents, a man the nation’s leaders knew had the nation’s interests always in the forefront of his profound thinking, without fear, without favor, objectivity a constant.… He had chosen the future. He had selected a little-known but outstanding congressman with a story to tell that would mesmerize the country. He had guided his anointed prince through the political labyrinth until the designated tyro emerged into the media sunlight, no longer a fledgling but a practitioner to be reckoned with. Then with the suddenness and audacity of a bolt of lightning, the story was told and the nation, indeed a large part of the world, was transfixed. A giant wave had been set in motion, carrying the prince to a land he had never considered, a land of power, a royal house of awesome responsibility. The White House. Samuel Winters had broken the rules and, far worse, at an enormous loss of life. Mr. A had not dropped from the sky in a crisis. The blond European had worked solely for the august Samuel Winters.
The director of Special Projects picked up his phone and gently touched the numbers on his console. “Dr. Winters,” he said in response to the single word Yes. “This is Payton.”
“It’s been a terrible day, hasn’t it, Doctor?”
“That’s not a title I use anymore. I haven’t for years.”
“A shame. You were a fine scholar.”
“Have you heard from Mr. A since last evening?”
“No.… Although his information was tragically prophetic, there’d be no reason for him to call me. As I told you, Mitchell, the man who employs him—a far more distant acquaintance than you—suggested he reach me … very much as you did. My reputation exceeds my presumed influence.”
“Through you I saw the President,” said Payton, closing his eyes at the old man’s lies.
“Well, yes. The news you brought me was devastating, as was Mr. A’s. In his case I naturally thought of you. I wasn’t sure Langford or his people had the expertise that you did—”
“I obviously didn’t have it,” interrupted MJ.
“I’m certain you did all you could.”
“Back to Mr. A, Dr. Winters.”
“Yes?”
“He’s dead.”
The gasp of breath was like an electric shock over the line. It was several seconds before Winters spoke, and when he did his voice was hollow. “What are you saying!”
“He’s dead. And someone known to you as code name S has been killed.”
“Oh, my God,” whispered the spokesman of Inver Brass, the whisper a tremulous echo of itself. “How do you come by this … information?”
“I’m afraid that’s privileged, even from you.”
“Damn you, I gave you Jennings! The President of the United States!”
“But you didn’t tell me why, Doctor. You never explained to me that your overriding concern—your consummate concern—was the man you had chosen. Evan Kendrick.”
“No!” protested Winters, as close to a scream of denial as he could manage. “You must not delve into such matters, they’re not your business! No laws have been broken.”
“I’d like to think you believe that, but if you do, I’m afraid you’re terribly wrong. When you contract the talents of someone like your European, you can’t divorce yourself from his methods.… As we’ve pieced it together they include political extortion through blackmail, the corruption of the legislative process, the theft of maximum-classified documents and indirectly causing the death and maiming of numerous government personnel—and finally murder. Code name S was terminated.”
“Oh, dear God …!”
�
��That’s who you were playing—”
“You don’t understand, Mitchell, that’s not the way things happened!”
“On the contrary, it’s exactly the way they happened.”
“I know nothing about such things, you must believe that.”
“I do because you employed a skilled professional for results, not for giving you explanations.”
“ ‘Employed’ is too simplistic a term! He was a dedicated man who had his own mission in life.”
“So I was told,” interrupted Payton. “He came from a country whose government had been stolen from its people.”
“What do you think is happening here?” said the leader of Inver Brass, his words now controlled but the depth of their meaning clear.
It was several moments before MJ replied, again with his eyes closed. “I know,” he said softly. “We’re putting that together, too.”
“They killed the Secretary of State and the entire delegation on Cyprus. They have no conscience, no allegiance to anything but their own ever-expanding wealth and power.… I want nothing, we want nothing!”
“I understand. You wouldn’t get it if you wanted it.”
“That’s why he was chosen, Mitchell. We found the extraordinary man. He’s too perceptive to be fooled and too decent to be bought. In addition, he has the personal requisites to command attention.”
The Icarus Agenda Page 69
