The Icarus Agenda

Chapter 33

It had been so simple, thought Ahbyahd, watching from the woods opposite the despised enemy's huge house. A sincere and pleasant young priest whose papers were in order and, of course, had no weapons on him, bearing greetings from friends of the great man. Who could refuse him a brief audience, this innocent holy man from a distant land unaware of the formalities attached to calling upon persons of importance? His initial rejection had been countermanded by the enemy himself; the rest was up to a highly inventive believer. What remained was up to all of them. They would not fail.

Their young comrade was walking out of the house! He was shaking hands with the loathsome 'Amal Bahrudi' under the watchful eyes of the guards in business suits and carrying automatic weapons. The believers could only estimate the size of the guard force; it was a minimum of twelve men, conceivably more inside. With the love of Allah the first assault would remove a large block of them, killing most and severely wounding the rest beyond functioning.

Their comrade was being escorted down the circular drive to the car, courteously parked on the road beyond the tall hedges. Only moments now. And the beloved Allah looked favourably upon them! Three more guards appeared, bringing the total in front of the house to seven. Do your work, our brother! Drive accurately!

The comrade reached the car; he bowed his head politely, making the sign of the cross, and once again shook hands, his single escort now concealed from the others by the hedges. He then opened the door and briefly coughed, supporting himself on the back of the seat as his right arm reached down over the fabric. Suddenly, with the swiftness and assurance of a true believer, he spun around gripping a double-edged blade in his hand and plunging it into the guard's throat before the government man could see what was happening. Blood erupting, the guard fell as the terrorist grabbed the weapon and the body simultaneously, dragging the corpse across the road and into the undergrowth at the edge of the woods. He looked over in Ahbyahd's direction, nodded and raced back to the car. Ahbyahd, in turn, snapped his fingers and signalled the brothers behind him hidden among the trees. The three men crept forward, dressed, like the white-haired one, in paramilitary clothing and gripping light-framed submachine guns, grenades clipped to their field jackets.

The English-speaking killer behind the wheel started the engine, shifted the car into gear and drove slowly, casually, towards the left entrance of the circular drive. Then abruptly, the motor suddenly roaring at its highest pitch, he swung the vehicle sharply to the right and into the entrance while he reached below the dashboard and flipped a switch. Opening the door, he aimed the car over the large front lawn towards the milling guards talking with the congressman and leaped out of the racing vehicle on to the gravel. As he hit the ground he heard a woman's screams through the cacophony of the thundering engine and the roars of the government patrols. One of the nurses had come running out of the front door yelling incoherently; at the sight of the driverless onrushing car, she turned and screamed again, now at Kendrick, who was nearest the stone entrance.

'Get away!' she shrieked, repeating words she had heard only moments before. 'They want to kill you!'

The congressman raced towards the heavy door, grabbing the woman by the arm and propelling her in front of him as the guards opened fire at the empty metal monster surging crazily out of control, veering now into the side of the house towards the sliding glass doors of the veranda. Inside, Evan crashed his shoulder into the door, slamming it shut. That action and the thick steel-reinforced panel of the door saved their lives.

The explosions came like thunderous successive combustions from some massive furnace, shattering windows and walls, firing curtains and furniture. Out in front of the house the seven guards from the Central Intelligence Agency fell, pierced by shards of glass and metal sent flying by ninety pounds of dynamite lashed to the undercarriage of the engine. Four were dead, heads and bodies riddled; two were barely alive, blood streaming out of eyes and chests. One, his left hand no more than a bleeding stump, had summoned rage, his weapon on automatic fire as he lurched across the lawn towards the priestly terrorist who was laughing insanely, his submachine gun spitting fire. Both men killed each other in the chill of the brisk Colorado day under the blinding Colorado sunlight.

Kendrick lunged up against the stone wall in the hallway, pressing himself into the bulging rock design. He looked down at the nurse. 'Stay where you are!' he ordered as he inched his way towards the corner of the living room. Smoke was billowing everywhere, carried by the breezes through the shattered windows. He heard the shouts outside; the guards from their flanking positions around the house were converging, professionals covering each other as they moved into new positions. Then there were four detonations one after the other—grenades! These were followed by other voices screaming in Arabic. 'Death to our enemies! Death to a great enemy! Blood will be answered by blood!' Repeated bursts from automatic weapons broke out from different directions. Two other grenades exploded, one thrown through the smashed windows directly into the living room, blowing apart the far wall. Evan spun around for the protection of the stone, then, as the debris settled, he shouted.

'Manny! Manny? Where are you? Answer me!' There was no reply, only the apparently perverted, steady ringing of a telephone. The gunfire outside escalated to deafening proportions, burst upon burst, bullets ricocheting off rock, thumping into wood, screeching wildly through the air. Manny had been on the porch, the porch with glass doors! Kendrick had to get out there. He had to! He rushed into the smoke and fire of the living room, shielding his eyes and his nostrils, when suddenly a figure flew into the shattered front windows, crashing through the fragments of glass. The man rolled on the floor and sprang to his feet.

'Ahbyahd!' screamed Evan, paralysed.

'You!' roared the Palestinian, his weapon levelled. 'My life has glory! Glory! Beloved Allah be praised! You bring me great happiness!'

'Am I worth it to you? So many killed? So many butchered? Am I really worth it? Does your Allah demand so much death?'

'You can speak of death? shrieked the terrorist. 'Azra dead! Yaakov dead! Zaya killed by Jews from the skies over the Baaka! All the others… hundreds, thousands—dead! Now, Amal Bahrudi, such a clever traitor, I take you to hell'

'Not yet came the voice, half whispered, half shouted from the archway leading to the porch. The words were accompanied by two loud, reverberating gunshots that momentarily drowned out the rapid fire outside. Ahbyahd, the white-haired one, arched back under the impact of the powerful weapon, a portion of his skull blown away. Emmanuel Weingrass, his face and shirt drenched with blood, his left shoulder pressed into the interior of the arch, slid to the floor.

'Manny!' yelled Kendrick, racing over to the old architect, kneeling down and lifting his upper body off the hard floor. 'Where are you hit?'

'Where wasn't I?' replied Weingrass throatily, with difficulty. 'Check the two girls! When… everything started they went to the windows… I tried to stop them. Check them, goddamn you!'

Evan looked over at the two bodies on the porch. Beyond them, the sliding doors were no more than frames bordering sharp, pointed fragments of thick glass. The car bomb had done its work; there was little left of two human beings but shredded skin and blood. 'There's nothing to check, Manny. I'm sorry.'

'Oh, you call yourself a God in your fucking heaven!' screamed Weingrass, tears welling in his eyes. 'What more do you want, you fraud!' The old man collapsed into unconsciousness.

Outside the gunfire stopped. Kendrick prepared for the worst, wrenching the .357 Magnum out of Manny's hand, wondering briefly who had given it to him, instantly knowing it was Gee-Gee Gonzalez. He gently lowered Weingrass and stood up. He walked cautiously into the smouldering living room and was suddenly assaulted by the stench of wet smoke, aware that water was showering out of the ceiling sprinklers.

A gunshot! He dropped to the floor, his eyes darting in all directions, followed by his weapon.

'Four!' shouted a voice from beyond the shattered windows. 'I count four!'

'One went inside!' yelled another. 'Approach and fire at any goddamn thing that moves! Christ, I don't want our body count! And I also don't want one of these motherfuckers to walk out alive! Do you understand me?'

'Understood.'

'He's dead!' yelled Evan with what voice he had left. 'But there's another, a wounded man in here. He's alive and he's severely wounded and he's one of us.'

'Congressman? Is that you, Mr. Kendrick?'

'It's me, and I never want to hear that title again.' Once more the telephone started ringing. Evan got to his feet and headed wearily towards the charred pine desk, drenched by the separated sprays from the sprinklers. Suddenly, he saw the nurse who had saved his life walk hesitantly around the stone arch of the hallway. 'Stay out of here,' he said. 'I don't want you to go out there.'

'I heard you say there was someone wounded, sir. That's what I'm trained for.'

The telephone kept ringing.

'Him, yes. Not the others. I don't want you to see the others!'

'I'm no spring chicken, Congressman. I did three tours of duty in "Nam.'

'But these were your friends!'

'So were countless others,' said the nurse, no comment in her voice. 'Is it Manny?'

'Yes.'

The telephone kept ringing.

'After your call, please contact Dr Lyons, sir.'

Kendrick picked up the phone. 'Yes?'

'Evan, thank Christ! It's MJ! I just heard from Adrienne—’

'Fuck off,' said Kendrick, disconnecting the line and dialling information.

At first, the room spun around, then far away thunder grew louder and bolts of lightning crashed into his mind. 'Would you please repeat that, operator, so I'm absolutely clear about what you've just said.'

'Certainly, sir. There's no listing for a Dr Lyons in Cortez or the Mesa Verde district. In fact, there's no one named Lyons—L-Y-O-N-S—in the area.'

'That was his name! I saw it on the clearance from the State Department!'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Nothing… Nothing!' Evan slammed down the phone and no sooner had he done so than it started ringing again. 'Yes?'

'My darling! Are you all right?'

'Your fucking MJ blew it! I don't know how many are dead and Manny's shot up like a slaughtered pig! He's not only half gone but he doesn't even have a doctor!'

'Call Lyons.'

'He doesn't exist!… How did you know about here?'

'I spoke to the nurse. She said a priest was there and, darling, listen to me! We found out only minutes ago that they were travelling as priests! I called MJ and he's beside himself. He's got half of Colorado moving in, all federals and sworn to secrecy!'

'I just told him to take a hike.'

'He's not your enemy, Evan.'

'Who the hell is?'

'For God's sake, we're trying to find out!'

'You're a little slow.'

'And they're very fast. What can I tell you?'

Kendrick, his hair drenched and his body soaked from the sprinklers, looked over at the nurse who was ministering to Weingrass. Her eyes were filled with tears, her throat holding back her hysteria from the sight of her friends on the veranda. Evan spoke softly. 'Tell me you're coming back to me. Tell me it's all going to end. Tell me I'm not going mad.'

'I can tell you all of those things, but you have to believe them. You're alive and that's all that matters to me right now.'

'What about the others who aren't alive? What about Manny? Don't they count?'

'Manny said something last night that impressed me very much. We were talking about the Hassans, Sabri and Kashi. He said we will each remember them and mourn for them in our own ways… but it must come later. To some that may sound cold, but not to me. He's been where I've been, my darling, and I know where he's coming from. None are forgotten, but for the moment we must forget them and do what we have to do. Does that make sense to you… my darling?'

'I'm trying to make sense out of it. When are you coming back?'

‘I’ll know in a couple of hours. I'll call you.'

Evan hung up the phone as the multiple sounds of sirens and approaching helicopters grew louder, all centering on an infinitesimal spot of the earth erroneously called Mesa Verde, in Colorado.

'It's a perfectly lovely apartment,' said Khalehla softly, walking through the marble foyer towards the sunken living room of the Vanvlanderen suite.

'It's convenient,' offered the new widow, a handkerchief gripped in her hand as she closed the door and joined the intelligence officer from Cairo. 'The Vice President can be quite demanding and it was either this or having to run another house when he's in California. Two houses are a bit much—his and mine. Do sit down.'

'Are they all like this?' asked Khalehla, sitting in the armchair designated by Ardis Vanvlanderen. It was opposite the large, imposing brocade sofa; the lady of the house was quick to establish the pecking order of the seating arrangements.

'No, actually my husband had it remodelled to our taste.' The widow brought the handkerchief briefly to her face. 'I suppose I should get used to saying “my late husband”,' she added, lowering herself sadly on the couch.

'I'm so sorry, and to repeat what I said, I apologize for intruding at such a time. It's unconscionable and I made that clear to my superiors, but they insisted.'

'They were right. Affairs of state must go on, Miss Rashad. I understand.'

'I'm not sure I do. This interview could have taken place at least tomorrow morning, in my opinion. But, again, others think otherwise.'

'That's what fascinates me,' said Ardis, smoothing the black silk of her Balenciaga dress. 'What can be so vitally important?'

'To begin with,' replied Khalehla, crossing her legs and removing a wrinkle from her dark grey suit acquired by way of San Diego's Robinsons. 'What we talk about must remain between ourselves. We don't want Vice President Bollinger unduly alarmed.' The agent from Cairo took out a notebook from her black purse and smoothed her dark hair which was pulled back and knotted in a severe bun. 'As I know you've been told, I'm posted overseas and was flown back for this assignment.'

'I was told that you're an expert in Middle East affairs.'

'That's a euphemism for terrorist activities. I'm half Arab.'

'I can see that. You're quite beautiful.'

'You're very beautiful, Mrs. Vanvlanderen.'

'I get by as long as I don't dwell upon the years.'

'I'm sure we're close in age.'

'Let's not dwell on that, either… What is this problem? Why was it so urgent that you see me?'

'Our personnel who work the Baaka Valley in Lebanon have uncovered startling and disturbing information. Do you know what a “hit team” is, Mrs. Vanvlanderen?'

'Who doesn't?' answered the widow, reaching for a pack of cigarettes on the coffee table. She extracted one and picked up a white marble lighter. 'It's a group of men—usually men—sent out to assassinate someone.' She lit the cigarette; her right hand almost imperceptibly trembled. 'So much for definitions. Why does it concern the Vice President?'

'Because of the threats that were made against him. The reason for the unit you requested from the Federal Bureau of Investigation.'

'That's all over,' said Ardis, inhaling deeply. 'It turned out to be some kind of psychotic crank who probably didn't even own a gun. But when those filthy letters and the obscene phone calls started coming in, I felt we couldn't take chances. It's all in the report; we chased him through a dozen cities until he got on a plane in Toronto. For Cuba, I understand, and it serves him right.'

'He may not have been a crank, Mrs. Vanvlanderen.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, you never found him, did you?'

'The FBI worked up a very complete profile, Miss Rashad. He was defined as mentally deranged, some kind of classic case of schizophrenia with overtones of a Captain Avenger complex or something equally ridiculous. He was essentially harmless. It's a closed book.'

'We'd like to reopen it.'

'Why?'

'Word from the Baaka Valley is that two or more hit teams have been dispatched over here, conceivably to assassinate Vice President Bollinger. Your crank may have been the point, wittingly or unwittingly, but nevertheless, the point.'

'The “point”? What are you talking about? I can't even understand your language except that it sounds preposterous.'

'Not at all,' said Khalehla calmly. 'Terrorists operate on the principle of maximum exposure. They will frequently announce an objective, a target, well in advance of execution. They do this in many ways, many variations.'

'Why would terrorists want to kill Orson—Vice President Bollinger?'

'Why did you think the threats against him should be taken seriously?'

'Because they were there. I could do no less.'

'And you were right,' agreed the intelligence officer, watching the widow crushing out her cigarette and reaching for another, which she promptly lit. 'But to answer your question, should the Vice President be assassinated, there's not only a void on a political ticket assured of re-election, but considerable destabilization.'

'For what purpose?'

'Maximum exposure. It would be a spectacular kill, wouldn't it? Even more so, as the record would show that the FBI had been alerted and then withdrawn, outsmarted by superior strategy.'

'Strategy?' exclaimed Ardis Vanvlanderen. 'What strategy?'

'A psychotic crank who wasn't a crank at all but a strategic diversion. Pivot attention on a harmless crank, then close the ' book while the real killers move into place.'

'That's crazy!'

'It's been repeated over and over again. In the Arabic mind, everything progresses geometrically in stages. One step leads to another, the first not necessarily related to the third, but the connection is there if you look for it. Looking back to classic cases, this diversion fits the bill.'

'It wasn't a “diversion”! There were the phone calls and the numbers were traced to different cities, the pasted-up letters with the filthy language!'

'Classic,' repeated Khalehla softly, writing.

'What are you doing?'

'Reopening the book… and noting your conviction. May I ask you a question?'

'Certainly,' replied the widow, her voice controlled but tight.

'Among Vice President Bollinger's many supporters—many friends, I should say—here in California, can you think of any who might not be either?'

'What?'

'It's no secret that the Vice President moves in wealthy circles. Is there anyone with whom he's had differences, or more than one, a particular group, perhaps? Over policy or procurements or government allocations.'

'Good God, what are you saying?'

'We've reached the bottom line, Mrs. Vanvlanderen, the reason I'm here. Are there people in California who would rather have another candidate on the ticket? Frankly, another Vice President?'

'I can't believe I'm hearing this! How dare you?'

'I'm not the one who's daring, Mrs. Vanvlanderen. Someone else is. International communications, no matter how obscured, can ultimately be traced. Perhaps not at first to a specific individual or individuals, but to a sector, a location… There's a third party, or parties, involved in this terrible thing, and they're here in southern California. Our people in the Baaka have zeroed in on initial cablegrams routed through Beirut from Zurich, Switzerland, original dateline… San Diego.'

'San Diego…? Zurich?'

'Money. A convergence of interests. One party wants a spectacular kill with maximum exposure, while the other wants the spectacular target removed but must stay as far away from the kill as possible. Both objectives take a great deal of money. Follow the money is a maxim in our work. We're tracing it now.'

'Tracing it?'

'It will only be a matter of days. The Swiss banks are cooperative where drugs and terrorism are concerned. And our agents in the Baaka are forwarding descriptions of the teams. We've stopped them before and we'll stop them now. We'll find the San Diego connection. We simply thought you might have some ideas.'

'Ideas?' cried the stunned widow, crushing out the cigarette. 'I can't even think, it's all so incredible! Are you certain that some enormous, extraordinary error hasn't been made?'

'We don't make errors in these matters.'

'Well, I think that's pretty shit-kicking egotistical,' said Ardis, the Pennsylvanian of her youth overriding her carefully cultivated English. 'I mean, Miss Rashad, you're not infallible.'

'In some cases we have to be; we can't afford not to be.'

'Now, that's asinine!… I mean—I mean if there are these hit teams, and if there are communications with Zurich and Beirut from… from the San Diego area, anyone could have sent them, giving any names they wanted to! I mean they could have used my name, for Christ's sake!'

'We'd instantly discount anything like that.' Khalehla answered the unasked what-if question as she closed her notebook and replaced it in her bag. 'It would be a set-up, and far too obvious to be taken seriously.'

'Yes, that's what I mean, a set-up! Someone could be setting up one of Orson's friends, isn't that possible?'

'For the purpose of assassinating the Vice President?'

'Maybe the—what did you call it?—the target is somebody else, isn't that possible?'

'Somebody else?' asked the field agent, nearly wincing as the intense widow grabbed another cigarette.

'Yes. And by sending cablegrams from the San Diego area implicating an innocent Bollinger supporter! That is possible, Miss Rashad.'

'It's very interesting, Mrs. Vanvlanderen. I'll convey your thoughts to my superiors. We'll have to consider the possibility. A double omission with a false insert.'

'What?' The widow's scratching voice came straight from some long gone Pittsburgh saloon.

'Shop talk,' said Khalehla, rising from the chair. 'It simply means disguise the target, omit the source, and provide a false identity.'

'You people talk goddamned funny.'

'It serves a purpose… We'll stay in constant touch with you, and we have the Vice President's schedule. Our own people, all counter-terrorist experts, will quietly supplement Mr. Bollinger's security forces at every location.'

'Yeah—awright.' Mrs. Vanvlanderen, the cigarette in her hand, the handkerchief forgotten on the brocade sofa, escorted Rashad out of the living room and up to the door.

'Oh, about the double omission-insert theory,' said the intelligence officer in the marble foyer. 'It's interesting, and we'll use it to press the Swiss banks for quick action, but I don't think it really holds water.'

'What?'

'All numbered Swiss accounts have sealed—and therefore unscalable—codes leading to points of origin. They are often labyrinthine, but they can be traced. Even the greediest Mafia overlord or Saudi arms merchant knows he's mortal. He's not going to leave millions to the gnomes of Zurich… Good night, and, again, my deepest sympathies.'

Khalehla walked back to the closed door of the Vanvlanderen suite. She could hear a muted scream of panic wrapped in obscenities from within; the sole resident of the made-to-measure apartment was going over the edge. The scenario had worked. MJ was right! The negative circumstances of Andrew Vanvlanderen's death had been reversed. What had been a liability was now an asset. The contributor's widow was breaking.

Milos Varak stood in a dark shopfront thirty yards to the left of the entrance to the Westlake Hotel, ten yards from the corner where the service entrance was located on the intersecting street. It was 7:35 pm, California time; he had outraced every commercial flight across the country from Washington, DC, Maryland and Virginia. He was in place for the moment of revelation, and equally important, everything was arranged upstairs in the hotel. The cleaning staff of the management, a management genuinely concerned about the grieving widow's sorrow, included a new member, experienced and instructed by the Czech. Frequency-designed intercepts had been placed in every room; no conversation could take place without being recorded by Varak's voice-activated tapes in the adjoining suite.

Taxis drove up to the hotel on the average of one every three minutes and Milos studied each departing fare. He had seen twenty to thirty, losing count but not his concentration. Suddenly he was aware of the unusual: a cab stopped on his left, across the intersecting street at least a hundred feet away. A man got out and Varak moved farther back into the unlit recess.

'I heard it on the radio.'

'So did I.'

'She's a bitch!'

'And if they're alive, they have to get out of the country. Can they get out…?'

' What are your speculations?'

'It's not the biggest news story of the day.'

'And Bollinger?'

The man in the top coat, the lapels pulled up, covering his face, walked rapidly across the street towards the hotel's entrance. He passed within ten feet of Inver Brass's coordinator. The traitor was Eric Sundstrom, and he was a man in panic.