The Icarus Agenda

Chapter 16

One year later. Sunday, 22 August 8:30 pm

One by one, like quiet, graceful chariots, the four limousines had deposited their owners in front of the marble steps leading to the pillared entrance of the estate on the banks of Chesapeake Bay. The arrivals were erratically spaced so that no sense of urgency was conveyed to suddenly curious onlookers, either on the highway or through the streets of the wealthy village in Maryland's Eastern Shore. It was merely another subdued social gathering of the immensely rich, a common sight in this enclave of financial power brokers. A prosperous local banker might glance out of his window and see the glistening cars roll by and wish he were privileged to hear the men talk over their brandy or billiards, but that was the extent of his ruminations.

The immensely rich were generous to their suburban environs and the townspeople were richer for them. Crumbs from their tables provided frequent bonuses: there were the armies of domestic and gardening help whose relatives swelled the payrolls with never a complaint from the owners so long as the estates were shipshape for their return from London, Paris or Gstaad. And for those in the professions, there was the occasional stock market tip over a friendly drink at the commercially quaint tavern in the centre of the town. The bankers, the merchants and the perpetually awed residents were fond of their 'lairds'; they guarded the privacy of these distinguished men and women with quiet firmness. And if guarding their privacy meant bending a few laws now and then, it was a small price to pay, and in a sense even moral when one considered how the gossip pedlars and the scandal sheets twisted everything out of all proportion to sell their newspapers and magazines. The ordinary man in the street could get roaring drunk or have a bloody fight with his wife or his neighbour, even be in a car accident, and no one took grotesque photographs of him to splatter all over the tabloids. Why were the rich singled out to provide lurid reading for people without an iota of their talents? The rich were different. They provided jobs and gave generously to charity and often made life just a little bit easier for those they came in contact with, so why should they be persecuted?

So went the townsfolk's logic. It was a small matter for the local police to keep their blotters cleaner than they might be; it made for harmonious relations. It also made for a number of well-kept secrets in this privileged enclave where the estate on Chesapeake Bay was located.

But secrecy is relative. One man's secret is another's joke; a government file marked 'classified' has more often than not appeared in public print; and a prominent cabinet member's sexual appetites are confidential fundamentally in terms of his wife finding out, as are hers regarding him. 'Cross my heart and hope to die' is a promise made by children of all ages who fail to keep their word, but where extraordinary death is concerned the circle of secrecy must be impenetrable. As it was this night when the five big cars passed through the village of Cynwid Hollow on their way to Chesapeake Bay.

Inside the immense house, in the wing nearest the water, the high-ceilinged library was ornately masculine. Leather and burnished wood predominated, while long windows overlooked the sculptured grounds outside illuminated by floodlights, and seven-foot-high bookshelves formed an imposing wall of knowledge wherever space allowed. Armchairs of soft brown leather, floor lamps at their sides, flanked the windows; a wide cherrywood desk stood at the far right corner of the room, a high-backed swivel chair of black leather behind it. Completing the typical aspects of such a room was a large circular table in the centre, a meeting ground for conferences best held in the security of the countryside.

With these items and this ambience, however, ordinary appearances came to an end and the unusual, if not the strange, became apparent. On the surface of the table, in front of each place, was a brass lamp, its light directed down on a yellow legal pad. It was as if the small, sharp circles of light made it easier for those at the table to rivet their concentration on whatever notes they made without the distraction of fully illuminated faces—and eyes—of those next to or opposite them. For there were no other lights on in the room; faces moved in and out of shadows, expressions discernible but not for lengthy examination. At the west end of the library, attached to the upper wall moulding above the bookshelves, was a long black tube that, when electrically commanded, shot down a silver screen that descended halfway to the parquet floor, as it was now. It was for the benefit of another unusual piece of equipment, unusual because of its permanence.

Built into the east wall beyond and above the table and electronically pushed forward into view, as now, was a console of audio-visual components that included projectors for immediate and taped television, film, photographic slides and voice recordings. Through the technology of a periscoped remote-controlled disk on the roof, the sophisticated unit was capable of picking up satellite and shortwave transmissions from all over the globe. At the moment, a small red light glowed on the fourth lateral; a carousel of slide photographs had been inserted and was ready for operation.

All these accoutrements were certainly unusual for such a library even to the rich, for their inclusion took on another ambience—that of a strategy room far from the White House or the Pentagon or the sterile chambers of the National Security Agency. One pressed button and the world, past and current, was presented for scrutiny, judgments rendered in isolated chiaroscuro.

But at the far right corner of this extraordinary room was a curious anachronism. Standing by itself several feet away from the book-lined wall was an old cast-iron stove, its flue rising to the ceiling. Beside it was a metal pail filled with coal. What was especially odd was that the stove was glowing despite the quiet whirr of the central air conditioning necessitated by the warm, humid night on Chesapeake Bay.

That stove, however, was intrinsic to the conference about to take place on the shores of Cynwid Hollow. Everything written down was to be burned, the notepads as well, for nothing said among these people could be communicated to the world outside. It was a tradition born of international necessity. Governments could collapse, economies rise and fall on their words, wars be precipitated or avoided on their decisions. They were the inheritors of the most powerful silent organization in the free world.

They were five.

And they were human.

'The President will be re-elected by an overwhelming majority two years from this November,' said the white-haired man with an aquiline, aristocratic face at the head of the conference table. 'We hardly needed our projections to determine this. He has the country in the palm of his hand and, short of catastrophic errors, which his more reasonable advisers will prevent, there's nothing anyone can do about it, ourselves included. Therefore we must prepare for the inevitable and have our man in place.'

'A strange term, “our man”,' commented a slender, balding man in his seventies with sunken cheeks and wide, gentle eyes, nodding his head. 'We'll have to move quickly. And yet again things could change. The President is such a charming person, so attractive, so wanting to be liked—loved, I imagine.'

'So shallow,' broke in a broad-shouldered, middle-aged black, quietly, with no animosity in his voice, his impeccably tailored clothes signifying taste and wealth. 'I have no ill feeling towards him personally, for his instincts are decent; he's a decent, perhaps a good man. That's what the people see and they're probably right. No, it's not him. It's those mongrels behind him—so far behind it's likely he doesn't know they exist except as campaign contributors.'

'He doesn't,' said the fourth member at the table, a rotund, middle-aged man with a cherubic face and the impatient eyes of a scholar below a rumpled thatch of red hair; his elbow-patched tweed jacket labelled him an academic. 'And I'll bet ten of my patents that some profound miscalculation will take place before his first term is over.'

'You'd lose,' said the fifth member at the table, an elderly woman with silver hair and dressed elegantly in a black silk dress with a minimum of jewelry. Her cultured voice was laced with those traces of inflection and cadence often described as mid-Atlantic. 'Not because you underestimate him, which you do, but because he and those behind him will consolidate their growing consensus until he's politically invincible. The rhetoric will be slanted, but there won't be any profound decisions until his opposition is rendered damn near voiceless. In other words, they're saving their big guns for the second term.'

'Then you agree with Jacob that we have to move quickly,' said the white-haired Samuel Winters, nodding at the gaunt-faced Jacob Mandel on his right.

'Of course I do, Sam,' replied Margaret Lowell, casually smoothing her hair, then suddenly leaning forward, her elbows firmly on the table, her hands clasped. It was an abruptly masculine movement in a very feminine woman, but none at the table noticed. Her mind was the focal point. 'Realistically, I'm not sure we can move quickly enough,' she said rapidly, quietly. 'We may have to consider a more abrupt approach.'

'No, Peg,' broke in Eric Sundstrom, the red-haired scholar on Lowell's left. 'Everything must be perfectly normal, befitting an upbeat administration that turns liabilities into assets. This must be our approach. Any deviation from the principle of natural evolution—nature being unpredictable—would send out intolerable alarms. That ill-informed consensus you mentioned would rally round the cause, inflamed by Gid's mongrels. We'd have a police state.'

Gideon Logan nodded his large black head in agreement, a smile creasing his lips. 'Oh, they'd stomp around the camp-fires, pulling in all the good-thinking people, and burn the asses off the body politic.' He paused, looking at the woman across the table. 'There are no shortcuts, Margaret. Eric's right about that.'

'I wasn't talking melodrama,' insisted Lowell. 'No rifle shots in Dallas or deranged kids with hang-ups. I only meant time. Have we the time?'

'If we use it correctly, we do,' said Jacob Mandel. 'The key factor is the candidate.'

'Then let's get to him,' interrupted the white-haired Samuel Winters. 'As you all know, our colleague Mr. Varak has completed his search and is convinced he's come up with our man. I won't bore you with his many eliminations except to say that if there's not complete unanimity among us, we'll examine them—every one. He's studied our guidelines—the assets we seek and the liabilities we wish to avoid; in essence, the talents we're convinced must be there. In my judgment he's unearthed a brilliant, if totally unexpected, prospect. I won't talk for our friend—he does that very well for himself—but I'd be remiss if I did not state that in our numerous conferences he's shown the same dedication to us that his uncle, Anton Varak, was said to have given to our predecessors fifteen years ago.'

Winters paused, his penetrating grey eyes levelled in turn at each person around the table. 'Perhaps it takes a European deprived of his liberties to understand us, understand the reasons for our being. We are the inheritors of Inver Brass, resurrected in death by those who came before us. We ourselves were to be selected by those men should their attorneys determine that our lives continued in the way they envisaged. When the sealed envelopes were given to each of us, each of us understood. We sought no further advantages from the society we live in, coveted no benefits or positions beyond those we already possess. Through whatever abilities we had, aided by luck, inheritance or the misfortune of others, we had reached a freedom granted to few in this terribly troubled world. But with this freedom comes a responsibility and we accept it, as did our predecessors years ago. It is to use our resources to make this a better country, and through that process hopefully a better world.' Winters leaned back in the armchair, his palms upturned as he shook his head, his voice tentative, even questioning. 'Lord knows, no one elected us, no one anointed us in the name of divine grace, and certainly no bolts of lightning struck down from the heavens revealing any Olympian message, but we do what we do because we can do it. And we do it because we believe in our collective, dispassionate judgment.'

'Don't be defensive, Sam,' interrupted Margaret Lowell gently. 'We may be privileged, but we're also diverse. We don't represent any single colour of the spectrum.'

'I'm not sure how to take that, Margaret,' said Gideon Logan, his eyebrows arched in mock surprise as the members of Inver Brass laughed.

'Dear Gideon,' replied Lowell. 'I never noticed. Palm Beach at this time of year? You're positively sunburned.'

'Someone had to tend your gardens, madame.'

'If you did, I'm no doubt homeless.'

'Conceivably, yes. A consortium of Puerto Rican families has leased the property, madame, a commune, actually.' Quiet laughter rippled across the table. 'I'm sorry, Samuel, our levity isn't called for.'

'On the contrary,' Jacob Mandel broke in. 'It's a sign of health and perspective. If we ever walk away from laughter, especially over our foibles, we have no business here… If you'll forgive me, the elders in the European pogroms taught that lesson. They called it one of the principles of survival.'

'They were right, of course,' agreed Sundstrom, still chuckling. 'It puts a distance, however brief, between people and their difficulties. But may we get to the candidate? I'm absolutely fascinated. Sam says he's a brilliant choice, but totally unexpected. I would have thought otherwise, given—as Peg said—the time factor. I thought he'd be someone in the wings, on the political wings of a Pegasus, if you will.'

'I really must read one of his books someday,' interrupted Mandel again, again softly. 'He sounds like a rabbi but I don't understand him.'

'Don't try,' said Winters, smiling kindly at Sundstrom.

'The candidate,' repeated Sundstrom. 'Do I gather that Varak has prepared a presentation?'

'With his usual regard for detail," answered Winters, moving his head to his left, indicating the glowing red light on the walled console behind him. 'Along the way he's unearthed some rather extraordinary information relating to events that took place a year ago, almost to the day.'

'Oman?' asked Sundstrom, squinting above the light of his brass lamp. 'Memorial services were held in over a dozen cities last week.'

'Let Mr. Varak explain,' said the white-haired historian as he pressed an inlaid button on the surface of the table. The low sound of a buzzer filled the room; seconds later the library door opened and a stocky blond man in his mid to late thirties walked into the shadowed light and stood in the frame. He was dressed in a tan summer suit and a dark red tie; his broad shoulders seemed to stretch the fabric of his jacket. 'We're ready, Mr. Varak. Please come in.'

'Thank you, sir.' Milos Varak closed the door, shutting out the dim light of the hallway beyond, and proceeded to the far end of the room. Standing in front of the lowered silver screen, he nodded courteously, acknowledging the members of Inver Brass. The glare of the brass lamps that reflected off the glistening table washed over his face, heightening the prominent cheekbones and the broad forehead below the full head of neatly combed straight blond hair. His eyelids were vaguely sloped, bespeaking a Slavic ancestry influenced by the tribes of Eastern Europe; the eyes within them were calm, knowing, and somehow cold. 'May I say it is good to see all of you again?' he said, his English precise, in his voice the accent of Prague.

'It's good to see you, Milos,' countered Jacob Mandel, saying the name with the proper Czech pronunciation, which was 'Meelos'. The others followed with brief utterances.

'Varak.' Sundstrom leaned back in his chair.

'You look well, Milos.' Gideon Logan nodded.

'He looks like a football player.' Margaret Lowell smiled. 'Don't let the Redskins see you. They need linebackers.'

'The game is far too confusing for me, madame'

'For them, too

'I've told everyone about your progress,' said Winters, adding softly, 'as you believe your progress to be Before revealing the identity of the man you're submitting to us, would you care to review the guidelines'"

'I would, sir ' Varak's eyes roamed around the table as he collected his thoughts 'To begin with, your man should be physically attractive but not “pretty” or feminine. Someone who meets the maximum requirements of your image-makers—anything less would present too many obstacles for the time we have. Therefore, a man men identify with the masculine virtues of this society and women find appealing. Nor should he be an ideologue unacceptable to vocal segments of the electorate. Further, he must give the appearance of being what you call “his own man”, above being bought by special interests and with a background to support that judgment. Naturally, he should have no damaging secrets to hide. Finally, the superficial is a most vital aspect of the search. Our man must have those appealing personal qualities that can help propel him into the political spotlight through accelerated public exposure. A figure of real or projected warmth and quiet humour, with documented acts of courage in his past but nothing he would exploit to overshadow the President.’

'His people wouldn't accept that,' said Eric Sundstrom.

'In any event, they won't have a choice, sir,’ answered Varak, his voice softly convincing. 'The manipulation will take place in four stages. Within three months our basically anonymous man will rapidly become visible, within six months he will be relatively well known, and at the end of the year he will have a recognition quotient on a par with the leaders of the Senate and the House, the same demographics targeted. These may be considered phases one through three. The fourth phase, several months before the conventions, will be capped by appearances on the covers of Time and Newsweek as well as laudatory editorials in the major newspapers and on TV. With the proper financing in the required areas, all this can be guaranteed ' Varak paused, then added, 'Guaranteed, that is, with the proper candidate, and I believe we've found him.'

The members of Inver Brass stared at their Czech coordinator in mild astonishment, then cautiously looked at one another.

'If we have," offered Margaret Lowell, 'and he comes down off the mountain, I'll marry him.'

'So will I,' said Gideon Logan 'Mixed marriages be damned.'

'Forgive me,' interrupted Varak, 'I did not mean to romanticize the prospect. He's quite a normal person, the qualities I attributed to him are mostly a result of the confidence born of his wealth, which he earned by extremely hard work and taking risks in the right places at the right times. He's comfortable with himself and others because he seeks nothing from others and knows what he is capable of himself.'

'Who is he?'' asked Mandel.

'May I show him to you?'' said Varak, speaking respectfully without replying as he took a remote control unit from his pocket and stepped away from the screen. 'It's possible some of you may recognize him, and I shall have to take back my remark about his anonymity.'

A bolt of light shot out from the console and the face of Evan Kendrick filled the screen. The photograph was in colour, accentuating Kendrick's deep tan as well as the stubble of a beard and the strands of light brown hair that crept down over his ears and the back of his neck. He was squinting into the sun, looking across water, his expression at once studious and apprehensive.

'He looks like a hippie,' said Margaret Lowell.

'The circumstances may explain your reaction,' answered Varak. 'This was taken last week, the fourth week of an annual journey he makes down the rivers of white water in the Rocky Mountains. He goes alone without company or a guide. ' The Czechoslovakian proceeded to advance the slides, giving each a beat of several seconds. The photographs showed Kendrick in various scenes of riding the rapids, on several occasions strenuously balancing his PVC craft and careening between the treacherous intrusion of jagged rocks, surrounded by sprays of wild water and foam. The mountain forests in the background served to emphasize the perilous smallness of man and his vessel against the unpredictable massiveness of nature.

'Wait a minute!' cried Samuel Winters, now peering through tortoiseshell glasses. 'Hold that one,' he continued, studying the photograph. 'You never said anything about this to me. He's rounding the bend heading towards the base camp below the Lava Falls.'

'Correct, sir.'

'Then he must have passed through the Class Five rapids above.'

'Yes, sir. '

'Without a guide?’

'Yes.'

'He's crazy! Several decades ago I rode those waters with two guides and I was frightened to death. Why would he do it?'

'He's been doing it for years—whenever he came back to the United States.'

'Came back?' Jacob Mandel leaned forward.

'Until about six years ago he was a construction engineer and developer. His work was centered on the eastern Mediterranean and the Persian Gulf. That part of the world is as far removed from the mountains and the rivers as one can imagine. I think he simply found a certain relief with the change of scenery. He'd spend a week or so on business then head out to the Northwest.'

'Alone, you say,' said Eric Sundstrom.

'Not in those days, sir. He'd frequently take a female companion.'

'Then he's obviously not a homosexual,' observed the only female member of Inver Brass.

'I never meant to imply that he was.'

'Nor did you mention anything about a wife or a family, which I'd think would be an important consideration. You simply said he now travels alone on what are obviously holidays.'

'He's a bachelor, madame.'

'That could be a problem,' inserted Sundstrom.

'Not necessarily, sir. We have two years to address the situation, and given the probability factors, a marriage during an election year might have a certain appeal.'

'With the most popular President in history in attendance, no doubt,' said Gideon Logan, chuckling.

'It's not beyond possibility, sir.'

'My God, you're covering the bases, Milos.'

'A moment, please.' Mandel adjusted his steel-rimmed glasses. 'You say he worked in the Mediterranean six years ago.'

'He was in production then. He sold the company and left the Middle East.'

'Why was that?'

'A tragic accident occurred that took the lives of nearly all his employees and their entire families. The loss profoundly affected him.'

'Was he responsible?' continued the stockbroker.

'Not at all. Another firm was charged with using inferior equipment.'

'Did he in any way profit from the tragedy?' asked Mandel, his gentle eyes suddenly hard.

'On the contrary, sir, I checked that out thoroughly. He sold the company for less than half its market value. Even the attorneys for the conglomerate that bought him out were astonished. They were authorized to pay three times the price.'

The eyes of Inver Brass returned to the large screen and the photograph of a man and his craft careening around a wild bend in the rapids.

'Who took these?' asked Logan.

'I did, sir,' replied Varak. 'I tracked him. He never saw me.'

The slides continued, and suddenly there was an abrupt change. The 'prospect' was no longer seen in the rugged clothes of the white water rapids or in day's-end fatigues and T-shirts around a campfire, cooking alone over the flames. He was now photographed clean-shaven, his hair cut and combed, and dressed in a dark business suit, walking up a familiar street, an attaché case in his hand.

'That's Washington,' said Eric Sundstrom.

'Now it's the steps leading up to the Rotunda,' added Logan with the next slide.

'He's on the Hill,' interjected Mandel.

'I know him!' said Sundstrom, the fingers of his right hand pressing into his temples. 'I know the face, and there's a story behind that face but I don't know what it is.'

'Not the story I'm about to tell you, sir.'

'All right, Milos.' Margaret Lowell's voice was adamant. 'Enough's enough. Who the hell is he?'

'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.'

'Are you suggesting,' Gideon Logan asked, 'he has true independence and integrity?'

'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 dismissible 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, 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 persuade 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 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 the other, 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 Arab 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, herm other 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. Apart from that document, there's nothing anywhere to indicate 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 got 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 centre 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—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, 11 August 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 against him,' 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 of view. 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-ridden streets in Masqat were supplanted by a typewritten page, the letters large, the lines triple-spaced. 'Each slide,' continued Varak, 'represents approximately a quarter 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 have omitted certain points 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 honour 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, try to fly too close to the sun and crash into the sea. And may God have mercy on our souls.'