The Icarus Agenda

Chapter 23

Emmanuel Weingrass sat in the red plastic booth with the stocky, moustached owner of the Mesa Verde cafe. The past two hours had been stressful for Manny, somewhat reminiscent of those crazy days in Paris when he had worked with the Mossad. The current situation was nowhere near as melodramatic and his adversaries were hardly lethal, but still he was an elderly man who had to get from one place to another without being seen or stopped. In Paris he had to run a gauntlet of terrorist scouts without being noticed from. Sacre-Coeur to the Boulevard de la Madeleine. Here in Colorado he had to get from Evan's house to the town of Mesa Verde without being stopped and locked up by his team of nurses, all of whom were charging about because of the activity outside.

'How did you do it?' asked Gonzalez-Gonzalez, the cafe's owner, as he poured Weingrass a glass of whisky.

'Civilized man's second oldest need for privacy, Gee-Gee. The toilet. I went to the toilet and climbed out a window. Then I mingled with the crowd taking pictures with one of Evan's cameras, like a real photographer, you know, until I got a taxi here.'

'Hey, man,' interrupted Gonzalez-Gonzalez. 'Those cats are making dinero today!'

'Thieves, they are! I climbed in and the first thing the goniff said to me was “One hundred dollars to the airport, mister.” So I said to him, taking off my hat, “The State Taxi Commission will be interested to hear about the new Verde rates,” and he says to me, “Oh, it's you, Mr. Weingrass, just a joke, Mr. Weingrass,” and I then tell him, “Charge 'em two hundred and take me to Gee-Gee's!”'

Both men broke into loud laughter as the pay telephone on the wall beyond the booth erupted in a staccato ring. Gonzalez placed his hand on Manny's arm. 'Let Garcia get it,' he said.

'Why? You said my boy called twice before!'

'Garcia knows what to say. I just told him.'

'Tell me!'

'He'll give the Congressman the number of my office phone and tell him to call back in two minutes.'

'Gee-Gee, what the hell are you doing?'

'A couple of minutes after you came in, a gringo I don't know arrived.'

'So what? You get plenty of people in here you don't know.'

'He doesn't belong here, Manny. He ain't got no raincoat or no hat or no camera, but he still don't belong here. He's got on a suit—with a vest.' Weingrass started to turn his head. 'Don't,I ordered Gonzalez, now gripping Weingrass's arm. 'Every now and then he looks over here from his table. He's got you on his mind.'

'So what do we do?'

'Just wait and get up when I tell you to.'

The waiter named Garcia hung up the pay phone, coughed once and went over to the dark-suited, red-haired stranger. He leaned down and said something close to the well-dressed customer's face. The man stared coldly at his unexpected messenger; the waiter shrugged and crossed back to the bar. The man slowly, unobtrusively, put several bills on the table, got up, and walked out by the nearby entrance.

'Now,' whispered Gonzalez-Gonzalez, rising and gesturing for Manny to follow him. Ten seconds later they were in the owner's dishevelled office. 'The Congressman will call back in about a minute,' said Gee-Gee, indicating the chair behind a desk that had seen better days decades before.

'You're sure it was Kendrick?' asked Weingrass.

'Garcia's cough told me yes.'

'What did he say to the guy at the table?'

'That he believed the message on the telephone must be for him since no other customer fitted his description.'

'What was the message?'

'Quite simple, amigo. It was important for him to contact his people outside.'

'Just that?'

'He left, didn't he? That tells us something, doesn't it?'

'Like what?'

'Una, he has people to reach, no? Dos, they are either outside this grand establishment or he can talk to them by other means of communication, namely, a fancy telephone in an automobile, yes? Tres, he did not come in here in his also-fancy suit to have a Tex-Mex beer that practically chokes him—as my fine sparkling wine chokes you, no? Cuatro, he is no doubt federal.'

'Government?' asked Manny astonished.

'Personally, of course, I have never been involved with illegal immigrants crossing the borders from my beloved country to the south, but the stories reach even such innocents as myself… We know what to look for, my friend. Comprende, hermano?'

'I always said,' said Weingrass, sitting behind the desk, 'find the classiest non-class joints in town and you can learn more about life than in all the sewers of Paris.'

'Paris, France, means a great deal to you, doesn't it, Manny?'

'It's fading, amigo. I'm not sure why, but it's fading. Something's happening here with my boy and I can't understand it. But it's important.'

'He means much to you also, yes?'

'He is my son.' The telephone rang, and Weingrass yanked it up to his ear as Gonzalez-Gonzalez went out of the door. 'Airhead, is that you?'

'What have you got out there, Manny?' asked Kendrick over the line from the sterile house on Maryland's Eastern Shore. 'A Mossad unit covering you?'

'Far more effective,' answered the old architect from the Bronx. 'There are no accountants, no CPAs counting the shekels over an egg cream. Now, you. What the hell happened?'

'I don't know, I swear I don't know!' Evan recounted his day in detail, from Sabri Hassan's startling news about the Oman revelations while he was in his pool to his hiding out in a cheap motel in Virginia; from his confrontation with Frank Swann of the State Department to his arrival at the White House under escort; from his hostile meeting with the White House chief of staff to his eventual presentation to the President of the United States, who proceeded to louse up everything by scheduling an award ceremony in the Blue Room next Tuesday—with the Marine Band. Finally, to the fact that the woman named Khalehla, who had first saved his life in Bahrain, was in reality a case officer in the Central Intelligence Agency and was being flown over for him to question.

'From what you've told me, she had nothing to do with exposing you.'

'Why not?'

'Because you believed her when she said she was an Arab filled with shame, you told me that. In some ways, Airhead, I know you better than you know yourself. You are not easily fooled about such matters. It's what made you so good with the Kendrick Group… For this woman to expose you would only add to her shame and further inflame the crazy world she lives in.'

'She's the only one left, Manny. The others wouldn't; they couldn't.'

'Then there are others beyond others.'

'For God's sake, u'/io? These were the only people who knew I was there.'

'You just said this Swann told you a blond creep with a foreign accent figured you were in Masqat. Where did he get his information?'

'No one can find him, not even the White House.'

'Maybe I know people who can find him,' interrupted Weingrass.

'No, Manny,' insisted Kendrick firmly. 'This isn't Paris and those Israelis are way off limits. I owe them too much, although some day I'd like you to explain to me the interest they had in a certain hostage at the embassy.'

'I was never told,' said Weingrass. 'I knew there was an initial plan the unit had trained for and I assumed it was designed to reach someone inside, but they never discussed it in front of me. Those people know how to keep their mouths shut… What's your next move?'

'Tomorrow morning with the Rashad woman. I told you.'

'After that.'

'You haven't been watching television.'

'I'm at Gee-Gee's. He only allows videotapes, remember? He's got a replay on one of the eighty-two Series, and most everyone at the bar thinks it's today. What's on television?'

'The President. He announced that I'm in protective seclusion.'

'Sounds like jail to me.'

'In a way it is, but the prison's tolerable and the warden's given me privileges.'

'Do I get a number?'

'I wouldn't know it. There's nothing printed on the phone, only a blank strip, but I'll keep you informed. I'll call you if I move. Nobody could trace this line and it doesn't matter if they did.'

'Okay, now let me ask you something. Did you mention me to anyone?'

'Good God, no. You may be in the classified Oman file and I did say that a lot of other people deserved credit beside myself, but I never used your name. Why?'

'I'm being followed.'

'What?'

'It's a wrinkle I don't like. Gee-Gee says the clown on my tail is federal and that there are others with him.'

'Maybe Dennison picked you out from the file and assigned you protection.'

'From what? Even in Paris I'm vault-tight—if I wasn't, I'd have been dead three years ago. And what makes you think I'm in any file? Outside the unit no one knew my name and none of our names were used in that conference the morning we all left. Finally, Airhead, if I'm being protected it'd be a good idea to let me know about it. Because if I'm dangerous enough to warrant that kind of protection, I might just blow the head off someone I don't know protecting me.'

'As usual,' said Kendrick, 'you may have an ounce of logic in your normal pound of implausibility. I'll check on it.'

'Do that. I may not have too many years left but I wouldn't want them cut short by a bullet in my head—from either side. Call me tomorrow, because now I've got to get back to the coven before the inhabitants report my departure to the head police warlock.'

'Give my regards to Gee-Gee,' added Evan. 'And tell him that when I'm home he's to stay the hell out of the importing business. Also, thank him, Manny.' Kendrick hung up the phone, his hand still on it. He picked it up and dialled 0.

'Operator,' said a somewhat hesitant female voice after more unanswered rings than seemed normal.

'I'm not sure why,' began Evan, 'but I have an idea that you're not an ordinary run-of-the-mill operator for the Bell Telephone Company.'

'Sir…?'

'It doesn't matter, miss. My name is Kendrick and I have to reach Mr. Herbert Dennison, the White House chief of staff, as soon as possible—it's urgent. I'm asking you to do your best to find him and have him call me within the next five minutes. If that's impossible, I'll be forced to call my secretary's husband, who's a lieutenant on the Washington police, and tell him I'm being held prisoner at a location I'm fairly certain I can identify accurately.'

'Sir, please'.'

'I think I'm being reasonable and very clear,' interrupted Evan. 'Mr. Dennison is to contact me within the next five minutes, and the countdown's begun. Thank you, operator, have a good day.'

Again Kendrick hung up the phone but now he removed his hand and walked over to a wall bar which held an ice bucket and assorted bottles of expensive whisky. He poured himself a drink, looked at his watch and proceeded towards a large casement window that looked out on the rear floodlit grounds. He was amused at the sight of a croquet lawn bordered by white wrought-iron furniture; he was less amused by the sight of a marine guard dressed in the casual, unmilitary uniform of the estate's staff. He was pacing a garden path near the stone wall, his uncasual, very military repeating rifle angled in front. Manny was right: He was in jail. Moments later the telephone rang and the congressman from Colorado walked back to it. 'Hello, Herbie, how are you?"

'How am I, you son of a bitch? I'm in the goddamned shower, that's how I am. Wet! What do you want?'

'I want to know why Weingrass is being followed. I want to know why his name ever surfaced anywhere, and you'd better have a damn good explanation, like his personal well-being.'

'Back up, ingrate,' said the chief of staff curtly. 'What the hell is a Weingrass? Something put out by Manischewitz?'

'Emmanuel Weingrass is an architect of international renown. He's also a close friend of mind and he's staying at my house in Colorado, and for reasons that I don't have to give you, his being there is extremely confidential. Where and to whom have you circulated his name?'

'I can't circulate what I've never heard of, you fruitcake.'

'You're not lying to me, are you, Herbie? Because if you are I can make the next few weeks very embarrassing for you.'

'If I thought that lying would get you off my back, I'd go to the well, but I haven't got any lies where a Weingrass is concerned. I don't know who he is, so help me.'

'You read the debriefing reports on Oman, didn't you?'

'It's one file and buried. Of course I read it.'

'Weingrass's name never appeared?'

'No, and I'd remember if it did. It's a funny name.'

'Not to Weingrass.' Kendrick paused, but not long enough for Dennison to interrupt. 'Could anyone in the CIA or NSA or any of those outfits put a guest of mine under surveillance without informing you?'

'No way!' shouted the White House suzerain. 'Where you and the troubles you've laid on us are concerned, no one moves sideways for an inch without my knowing about it!'

'One last question. In the Oman file, was there any mention of the person flying back with me from Bahrain?'

It was Dennison's turn to pause. 'You're a little obvious, Congressman.'

'You're a little closer to those soft-boiled eggs over your face. If you think I'm bad news for you and your man now, don't even speculate on the architect's connection. Leave it alone.'

‘I’ll leave it alone,' agreed the chief of staff. 'With a name like Weingrass I can make another connection and it scares me. Like the Mossad.'

'Good. Now just answer my question. What was in the file about the flight from Bahrain to Andrews?'

'The cargo consisted of you and an old Arab in Western clothes, a longtime subagent for Cons Op who was being flown over for medical treatment. His name was Ali some-thing-or-other; State cleared him and he vanished. That's straight, Kendrick. No one in this government is aware of a Mr. Weingrass.'

'Thanks, Herb.'

'Thanks for the “Herb”. Is there anything I can do?'

Evan stared at the casement window, then at the floodlit grounds and the marine guard outside and everything the scene represented. 'I'm going to do you a favour and say no,' he said softly. 'At least for now. But you can clarify something for me. This phone has a tap on it, doesn't it?'

'Not the usual variety. There's a little black box like those on aircraft. It has to be removed by authorized personnel and the tapes processed under the strictest security measures.'

'Can you stop the operation for, say, thirty minutes or so, until I contact someone? You'd want it that way, believe me.'

‘I’ll accept that… Sure, there's an override on the line; our people use it a lot when they're in those houses. Give me five minutes and call Moscow, if you like.'

'Five minutes.'

'May I go back to my shower now?'

'Try bleach this time.' Kendrick replaced the phone and took out his wallet, slipping his index finger under the flap behind his Colorado driver's licence. He removed the scrap of paper with Frank Swann's two private telephone numbers written on it and again looked at his watch. He would wait ten minutes and hope that the deputy director of Consular Operations was at one place or the other. He was. At his apartment, of course. After curt greetings, Evan explained where he was—where he thought he was.

'How's “protective seclusion”?' asked Swann, sounding weary. 'I've been to several of those places when we've interrogated defectors. I hope you've got one with stables or at least two pools, one inside, naturally. They're all alike; I think the government buys them as political payoffs for the rich who get tired of their big houses and want to buy new ones gratis. I hope somebody's listening. I don't have a pool any more.'

'There's a croquet lawn, I've seen that.'

'Small time. What have you got to tell me? Am I any closer to getting off the hook?'

'Maybe. At least I've tried to take some heat off you… Frank, I've got to ask you a question and we can both say anything we like, use any names we like. There's no tap on the phone here now.'

'Who told you that?'

'Dennison.'

'And you believed him? Incidentally, I couldn't care less if this transcript's given to him.'

'I believe him because he has a clue as to what I'm going to say and wants to put a couple of thousand miles between the administration and what we're going to talk about. He said we're on an “override”.'

'He's right. He's afraid of some loose cannon hearing your words. What is it?'

'Manny Weingrass, and through him linkage to the Mossad—’

'I told you, that's a no-no,' broke in the deputy director. 'Okay, we're really on override. Go ahead.'

'Dennison told me that the Oman file lists the cargo on the plane from Bahrain to Andrews Air Force Base on that last morning as consisting of me and an old Arab in Western clothing who was a subagent for Consular Operations—’

'And who was being brought over here for medical treatment,' interrupted Swann. 'After years of invaluable cooperation our clandestine services owed Ali Saada and his family that much.'

'You're sure that was the wording?'

'Who would know it better? I wrote it.'

'You? Then you knew it was Weingrass?'

'It wasn't difficult. Your instructions relayed by Grayson were pretty damned clear. You demanded—demanded, mind you—that an unnamed person accompany you on that plane back to the States—’

'I was covering for the Mossad.'

'Obviously, and so was I. You see, bringing someone in like that is against the rules—forget the law—unless he's on our books. So I put him on the books as someone else.'

'But how did you know it was Manny?'

'That was the easiest part. I spoke to the chief of the Bahrainian Royal Guards, who was assigned as your covert escort. The physical description was probably enough, but when he told me that the old bastard kicked one of his men in the knee because he let you stumble getting into the car to the airport, I knew it was Weingrass. His reputation, as they say, has always preceded him.'

'I appreciate your doing that,' said Evan softly. 'Both for him and for me.'

'It was the only way of thanking you that I could think of.'

'Then I can assume that no one in Washington intelligence circles knows that Weingrass was involved in Oman.'

'Absolutely. Forget Masqat, he's a nonperson. He's just not among the living over here.'

'Dennison didn't even know who he was—’

'Of course not.'

'He's being followed, Frank. Out in Colorado, he's under someone's surveillance.' 'Not ours.'

Eight hundred and ninety-five feet due north of the sterile house on the waters of Chesapeake Bay was the estate of Dr Samuel Winters, honoured historian and for over forty years friend and adviser to presidents of the United States. In his younger days the immensely wealthy academic was considered an outstanding sportsman; trophies for polo, tennis, skiing and sailing lined the shelves of his private study attesting to his former skills. Now there remained for the ageing educator a more passive game that had been a minor passion with the Winters family for generations, initially making its appearance on the lawn of their mansion in Oyster Bay during the early twenties. The game was croquet, and whenever any member of the family built a new property, among the first considerations was a proper lawn for the very official course that never deviated from the 40—y 75-foot dimensions prescribed by the National Croquet Association in 1882. So one of the sights that caught the eye of a visitor to Dr Winters' estate was the croquet lawn to the right of the enormous house above the waters of the Chesapeake. Its charm was enhanced by the many pieces of white wrought-iron furniture that bordered the course, areas of respite for those studying their next moves or having a drink.

The scene was identical with the croquet course at the sterile house 895 feet to the south of Winters' property, and it was only fitting that it should be, for all the land upon which both mansions stood originally belonged to Samuel Winters. Five years ago—with the silent resurrection of Inver Brass—Dr Winters had quietly donated the south estate to the United States government for use as a ‘safe' or ‘sterile' house. In order to deter the amiably curious and divert hostile probes by potential enemies of the United States, the transaction was never revealed. According to the property records filed in the Town Hall of Cynwid Hollow, the house and grounds still belonged to Samuel and Martha Jennifer Winters (the latter deceased), and for it the family's accountants annually paid the inordinately high shoreline taxes, refunded secretly by a grateful government. If any of the curious, friendly or unfriendly alike, inquired into the activity at this aristocratic compound, they were invariably told that it never stopped, that cars and caterers carried and cared for the great and the near great of the academic world and industry, all representing the varied interests of Samuel Winters. A squad of strong young gardeners kept the place immaculate and also served as staff, seeing to the needs of the constant stream of visitors. The image conveyed was that of a multi-millionaire's multipurpose think tank in the countryside—far too open to be anything but what it purported to be.

To maintain the integrity of that image, all bills were sent to Samuel Winters' accountants, who promptly paid them with duplicates of these payments forwarded to the historian's personal lawyer, who, in turn, had them hand-delivered to the Department of State for covert reimbursement. It was a simple arrangement and beneficial to all concerned, as simple and as beneficial as it was for Dr Winters to suggest to President Langford Jennings that Congressman Evan Kendrick might simply benefit from a few days out of the media limelight at the 'safe house' south of his property, since there was no activity there at the time. The President gratefully concurred; he would have Herb Dennison take care of the arrangements.

Milos Varak removed the large, anti-impedance earphones from his head and shut down the electronic console on the table in front of him. He swung his chair to the left, snapped a switch on the nearby wall and instantly heard the quiet gears that lowered the directional dish on the roof. He then got out of the chair and wandered aimlessly around the sophisticated communications equipment in the soundproof studio in the cellars of Samuel Winters' house. He was alarmed. What he had overheard on the telephone intercept from the sterile house was beyond his understanding.

As the State Department's Swann so unequivocally confirmed, no one in the Washington intelligence community was aware of Emmanual Weingrass. They had no idea that 'the old Arab' who had flown back from Bahrain with Evan Kendrick was Weingrass. In Swann's words, his 'thank you' to Evan Kendrick for the congressman's efforts in Oman was to get Weingrass secretly out of Bahrain and with equal secrecy into the United States by using a disguise and a cover. The man and the cover had bureaucratically disappeared; Weingrass was virtually a 'nonperson'. Also, Swann's deception was mandatory because of Weingrass's Mossad connection, a deception thoroughly understood by Kendrick. In point of fact, the congressman himself had taken extreme measures to conceal the presence and the identity of his elderly friend. Milos had learned that the old man had been entered into the hospital under the name of Manfred Weinstein, and put in a room in a private wing with its own secluded entrance, and that upon release he had been flown to Colorado in a private jet to Mesa Verde.

Everything was private; Weingrass's name was never recorded anywhere. And during the months of his convalescence the irascible architect only infrequently left the house and never for places where the congressman was known. Damn! thought Varak. Except for Kendrick's close personal circle that excluded everyone but a trusted secretary, her husband, an Arab couple in Virginia and three overpaid nurses whose generous salaries included total confidentiality, Emmanuel Weingrass did not exist!

Varak walked back to the console table, disengaged the Record button, rewound the tape and found the words he wanted to hear again.

Then I can assume that no one in Washington intelligence circles knows that Weingrass was involved in Oman?

Absolutely. Forget Masqat, he's a nonperson. He's just not among the living over here.

Dennison didn't even know who he was—

Of course not.

He's being followed, Frank. Out in Colorado, he's under someone's surveillance.

Not ours.

'Not ours…’ Whose?

That question was what alarmed Varak. The only people who knew that there was an Emmanuel Weingrass, who had been told how much that old man meant to Evan Kendrick, were the five members of Inver Brass. Could one of them—?

Milos did not want to think any more. At the moment it was too painful for him.

Adrienne Rashad was snapped awake by the sudden turbulence encountered by the military aircraft. She looked across the aisle in the dimly lit cabin with its less-than-first-class accommodation. The attaché from the embassy in Cairo was obviously upset—afraid, to be precise. Yet the man was experienced enough with such transport to bring along a comforting friend, specifically an outsized leather-bound flask which he literally ripped out of his briefcase and drank from until he was aware that his 'cargo' was looking at him. Sheepishly he held up the flask towards her. She shook her head and spoke over the sound of the jet engines. 'Just potholes,' she said.

'Hey, pals!' cried the voice of the pilot over the intercom. 'Sorry about the potholes but I'm afraid this weather's unavoidable for about another thirty minutes or so. We have to stick to our channel and away from commercial routes. You should have flown the friendly skies, buddies. Hang on!'

The attaché drank once again from the flask, this time longer and more fully than before. Adrienne turned away, the Arab in her telling her not to observe a man's fear, the Western woman in her makeup saying that as an experienced military flier she should allay her companion's fear. The synthesis in her won the argument; she smiled reassuringly at the attaché and returned to her thoughts that had been broken off by sleep.

Why had she been so peremptorily ordered back to Washington? If there were new instructions so delicate that they could not be put on scramblers, why hadn't Mitchell Payton called her with at least a clue? It wasn't like 'Uncle Mitch' to permit any interference with her work unless he told her something about it. Even with the Oman mess last year, and if ever there was a priority situation that was it, Mitch had sent sealed instructions to her by diplomatic courier telling her without explanation to co-operate with the State Department's Consular Operations no matter how offended she might be. She had, and it had offended her, indeed. Now out of the blue she had been ordered back to the States, virtually incommunicado, without a single word from Mitchell Payton.

Congressman Evan Kendrick. For the past eighteen hours his name had rolled across the world like the sound of approaching thunder. One could almost see the frightened faces of those who had been involved with the American, looking up at the sky wondering if they should run for cover, run for their lives under the threat of the impending storm. There would be vendettas against those who had aided the interfering man from the West. She wondered who had leaked the story—no, 'leaked' was too innocuous a word—who had exploded the story! The Cairo papers were filled with it, and a quick check confirmed that throughout the Middle East Evan Kendrick was either a holy saint or a hideous sinner. Canonization or an agonizing death awaited him depending upon the stance of those judging him, even within the same country. Why? Was it Kendrick himself who had done this? Had this vulnerable man, this improbable politician who had risked his life to avenge a terrible crime decided after a year of humility and self-denial to strike out for a political prize? If so, it was not the man she had known so briefly yet so intimately fourteen months ago. With reservations but not regret she remembered. They had made love—improbably, frenetically, perhaps inevitably under the circumstances—but those transient moments of splendid comfort were to be forgotten. If she had been brought back to Washington because of a suddenly ambitious congressman, they had never existed.