The Icarus Agenda

Chapter 2

Washington DC

Wednesday, 11 August, 11:50 am

The noonday sun beat down on the capital's pavement; the midsummer's air was still with the oppressive heat. Pedestrians walked with uncomfortable determination, men's collars open, ties loosened. Briefcases and bags hung like dead weights while their owners stood impassively at intersections waiting for the lights to change. Although scores of men and women—by and large servants of the government and therefore of the people—may have had urgent matters on their minds, urgency was difficult to summon in the streets. A torpid blanket had descended over the city, numbing those who ventured outside air-conditioned rooms and offices and cars.

A traffic accident had taken place at the corner of twenty-third Street and Virginia Avenue. It was not major in terms of damage or injury, but it was far from minor where tempers were concerned. A taxi had collided with a government car emerging from an underground parking ramp of the State Department. Both drivers—righteous, hot and fearing their superiors—stood by their vehicles accusing each other, yelling in the blistering heat while awaiting the police who had been summoned by a passing government employee. Within moments the traffic was congested; horns blared and angry shouts came from reluctantly opened windows.

The passenger in the cab climbed impatiently out of the back seat. He was a tall, slender man in his early forties, and seemed out of place in surroundings that included summer suits, neat print dresses and attaché cases. He wore a pair of rumpled khaki trousers, boots and a soiled cotton safari jacket that took the place of a shirt. The effect was of a man who did not belong in the city, a professional guide, perhaps, who had strayed out of the higher and wilder mountains. Yet his face belied his clothes. It was clean-shaven, his features sharp and clearly defined, his light blue eyes aware, squinting, darting about and assessing the situation as he made his decision. He put his hand on the argumentative driver's shoulder; the man whipped around and the passenger gave him two $20 bills.

'I have to leave,' said the fare.

'Hey, come on, mister! You saw! That son of a bitch pulled out with no horn, no nothing!'

'I'm sorry. I wouldn't be able to help you. I didn't see or hear anything until the collision.'

'Oh, boy! Big John Q! He don't see and he don't hear! Don't get involved, huh?'

'I'm involved,' replied the passenger quietly, taking a third $20 bill and shoving it into the driver's top jacket pocket. 'But not here.'

The oddly-dressed man dodged through the gathering crowd and started down the block towards Third Street—towards the imposing glass doors of the State Department. He was the only person running on the pavement.

The designated situation room in the underground complex at the Department of State was labelled OHIO-Four-Zero. Translated it meant 'Oman, maximum alert'. Beyond the metal door rows of computers clacked incessantly, and every now and then a machine—having instantaneously crosschecked with the central data bank—emitted a short high-pitched signal announcing new or previously unreported information. Intense men and women studied the printouts, trying to evaluate what they read.

Nothing. Zero. Madness!

Inside that large, energized room was another metal door, smaller than the entrance and with no access to the corridor. It was the office of the senior official in charge of the Masqat crisis; at arm's length was a telephone console with links to every seat of power and every source of information in Washington. The current proprietor was a middle-aged deputy director of Consular Operations, the State Department's little known arm of covert activities. His name was Frank Swann, and at the moment—a high noon that held no sunlight for him—his head with its prematurely grey hair lay on his folded arms on the top of the desk. He had not had a night's sleep for nearly a week, making do with only such naps as this one.

The console's sharp hum jarred him awake; his right hand shot out. He punched the lighted button and picked up the phone. 'Yes?… What is it?' Swann shook his head and swallowed air, only partially relieved that the caller was his secretary five storeys above. He listened, then spoke wearily. ' Who? Congressman, a congressman? The last thing I need is a congressman. How the hell did he get my name?… Never mind, spare me. Tell him I'm in conference—with God, if you like—or go one better and say with the secretary.'

'I've prepared him for something like that. It's why I'm calling from your office. I told him I could only reach you on this phone.'

Swann blinked. 'That's going some distance for my Praetorian Guard, Ivy-the-terrible. Why so far, Ivy?'

'It's what he said, Frank. And also what I had to write down because I couldn't understand him.'

'Let's have both.'

'He said his business concerned the problem you're involved with—'

'Nobody knows what I'm—forget it. What else?'

'I wrote it down phonetically. He asked me to say the following: “Ma efham zain.” Does that make any sense to you, Frank?'

Stunned, Deputy Director Swann again shook his head, trying to clear his mind further, but needing no further clearance for the visitor five floors above. The unknown congressman had just implied in Arabic that he might be of help. 'Get a guard and send him down here,' Swann said.

Seven minutes later the door of the office in the underground complex was opened by a marine sergeant. The visitor walked in, nodding to his escort as the guard closed the door.

Swann rose from his desk apprehensively. The 'congressman' hardly lived up to the image of any member of the House of Representatives he had ever seen—at least in Washington. He was dressed in boots, khaki trousers and a summer hunting jacket that had taken too much abuse from the spattering of campfire frying pans. Was he an ill-timed joke?

'Congressman—?' said the deputy director, his voice trailing off for want of a name as he extended his hand.

'Evan Kendrick, Mr. Swann,' replied the visitor, approaching the desk and shaking hands. 'I'm the first term man from Colorado's ninth district.'

'Yes, of course, Colorado's ninth. I'm sorry I didn't—’

'No apologies are necessary, except perhaps from me—for the way I look. There's no reason for you to know who I am—’

'Let me add something here,' interrupted Swann pointedly. 'There's also no reason for you to know who I am, Congressman.'

'I understand that, but it wasn't very difficult. Even newly-arrived representatives have access—at least the secretary I inherited does. I knew where to look over here, I just needed to refine the prospects. Someone in State's Consular Operations—'

'That's not a household name, Mr. Kendrick,' interrupted Swann again, again with emphasis.

'In my house it was once—briefly. Anyway, I wasn't just looking for a Middle East hand, but an expert in Southwest Arab affairs, someone who knew the language and a dozen dialects fluently. The man I wanted would have to be someone like that… You were there, Mr. Swann.'

'You've been busy.'

'So have you,' said the congressman, nodding his head at the door and the huge outer office with the banks of computers. 'I assume you understood my message or else I wouldn't be here.'

'Yes,' agreed the deputy director. 'You said you might be able to help. Is that true?'

'I don't know. I only knew I had to offer.'

'Offer? On what basis?'

'May I sit down?'

'Please. I'm not trying to be rude, I'm just tired.' Kendrick sat down; Swann did the same, looking strangely at the freshman politician. 'Go ahead, Congressman. Time's valuable, every minute, and we've been concerned with this “problem”, as you described it to my secretary, for a few long, hairy weeks. Now I don't know what you've got to say or whether it's relevant or not, but if it is, I'd like to know why it's taken you so long to get here.'

'I hadn't heard anything about the events over in Oman. About what's happened—what's happening.'

'That's damn near impossible to believe. Is the Congressman from Colorado's ninth district spending the House recess at a Benedictine retreat?'

'Not exactly.'

'Or is it possible that a new ambitious congressman who speaks some Arabic,' went on Swann rapidly, quietly, unpleasantly, 'elaborates on a few cloakroom rumours about a certain section over here and decides to insert himself for a little political mileage down the road? It wouldn't be the first time.'

Kendrick sat motionless in the chair, his face without expression, but not his eyes. They were at once observant and angry. 'That's offensive,' he said.

'I'm easily offended under the circumstances. Eleven of our people have been killed, mister, including three women. Two hundred and thirty-six others are waiting to get their heads blown off! And I ask you if you can really help and you tell me you don't know, but you have to offer! To me that has the sound of a hissing snake so I watch my step. You walk in here with a language you probably learned making big bucks with some oil company and figure that entitles you to special consideration—maybe you're a “consultant”; it has a nice ring to it. A freshman pol is suddenly a consultant to the State Department during a national crisis. Whichever way it goes, you win. That'd lift a few hats in Colorado's ninth district, wouldn't it?'

'I imagine it would if anyone knew about it.'

'What?' Once again the deputy director stared at the congressman, not so much in irritation now but because of something else. Did he know him?

'You're under a lot of stress so I won't add to it. But if what you're thinking is a barrier, let's get over it. If you decide I might be of some value to you, the only way I'd agree is with a written guarantee of anonymity, no other way. No one's to know I've been here. I never talked to you or anyone else.'

Nonplussed, Swann leaned back in his chair and brought his hand to his chin. 'I do know you,' he said softly.

'We've never met.'

'Say what you want to say, Congressman. Start somewhere.'

'I'll start eight hours ago,' began Kendrick. 'I've been riding the Colorado white water into Arizona for almost a month—that's the Benedictine retreat you conjured up for the congressional recess. I passed through Lava Falls and reached a base camp. There were people there, of course, and it was the first time I'd heard a radio in nearly four weeks.'

'Four weeks?' repeated Swann. 'You've been out of touch all that time? Do you do this sort of thing often?'

'Pretty much every year,' answered Kendrick. 'It's become kind of a ritual,' he added quietly. 'I go alone; it's not pertinent.'

'Some politician,' said the deputy, absently picking up a pencil. 'You can forget the world, Congressman, but you still have a constituency.'

'No politician,' replied Evan Kendrick, permitting himself a slight smile. 'And my constituency's an accident, believe me. Anyway, I heard the news and moved as fast as I could. I hired a river plane to fly me to Flagstaff and tried to charter a jet to Washington. It was too late at night, too late to clear a flight plan, so I flew on to Phoenix and caught the earliest plane here. Those in-flight phones are a marvel. I'm afraid I monopolized one, talking to a very experienced secretary and a number of other people. I apologize for the way I look; the airline provided a razor but I didn't want to take the time to go home and change clothes. I'm here, Mr. Swann, and you're the man I want to see. I may be of absolutely no help to you, and I'm sure you'll tell me if I'm not. But to repeat, I had to offer.'

While his visitor spoke, the deputy had written the name 'Kendrick' on the pad in front of him. Actually, he had written it several times, underlining the name. Kendrick. Kendrick. Kendrick. 'Offer what?' he asked, frowning and looking up at the odd intruder. ' What, Congressman?'

'Whatever I know about the area and the various factions operating over there. Oman, the Emirates, Bahrain, Qatar—Masqat, Dubai, Abu Dhabi—up to Kuwait and down to Riyadh. I lived in those places. I worked there. I know them very well.'

'You lived—worked—all over the Southwest map?'

'Yes. I spent eighteen months in Masqat alone. Under contract to the family.'

'The sultan?'

'The late sultan; he died two or three years ago, I think. But yes, under contract to him and his ministers. They were a tough group and good. You had to know your business.'

'Then you worked for a company,' said Swann, making a statement, not asking a question.

'Yes.'

'Which one?'

'Mine,' answered the new congressman.

'Yours?'

'That's right.'

The deputy stared at his visitor, then lowered his eyes to the name he had written repeatedly on the pad in front of him. 'Good Lord,' he said softly. 'The Kendrick Group! That's the connection, but I didn't see it. I haven't heard your name in four or five years—maybe six.'

'You were right the first time. Four to be exact.'

'I knew there was something. I said so—’

'Yes, you did, but we never met.'

'You people built everything from water systems to bridges—race tracks, housing projects, country clubs, airfields—the whole thing.'

'We built what we were contracted to build.'

'I remember. It was ten or twelve years ago. You were the American wonder boys in the Emirates—and I do mean boys. Dozens of you in your twenties and thirties and filled with high tech, piss and vinegar.'

'Not all of us were that young—’

'No,' interrupted Swann, frowning in thought. 'You had a late-blooming secret weapon, an old Israeli, a whiz of an architect. An Israeli, for heaven's sake, who could design things in the Islamic style and broke bread with every rich Arab in the neighbourhood.

'His name was Emmanuel Weingrass—is Manny Weingrass—and he's from Garden Street in the Bronx in New York. He went to Israel to avoid legal entanglements with his second or third wife. He's close to eighty now and living in Paris. Pretty well, I gather, from his phone calls.'

'That's right,' said the deputy director. 'You sold out to Bechtel or somebody For thirty or forty million.'

'Not to Bechtel. It was Trans-International, and it wasn't thirty or forty, it was twenty-five. They got a bargain and I got out. Everything was fine.'

Swann studied Kendrick's face, especially the light blue eyes that held within them circles of enigmatic reserve the longer one stared at them. 'No, it wasn't,' he said softly, even gently, his hostility gone. 'I do remember now. There was an accident at one of your sites outside Riyadh—a cave-in caused when a faulty gas line exploded—more than seventy people were killed including your partners, all your employees, and some kids.'

'Their kids,' added Evan quietly. 'All of them, all their wives and children. We were celebrating the completion of the third phase. We were all there. The crew, my partners—everyone's wife and child. The whole shell collapsed while they were inside, and Manny and I were outside—putting on some ridiculous clown costumes.'

'But there was an investigation that cleared the Kendrick Group completely. The utility firm that serviced the site had installed inferior conduit falsely labelled as certified.'

'Essentially, yes.'

'That's when you packed it all in, wasn't it?'

'This isn't pertinent,' said the congressman simply. 'We're wasting time. Since you know who I am, or at least who I was, is there anything I can do?'

'Do you mind if I ask you a question? I don't think it's a waste of time and I think it is pertinent. Clearances are part of the territory and judgments have to be made. I meant what I said before. A lot of people on the Hill continuously try to make political mileage out of us over here.'

'What's the question?'

'Why are you a congressman, Mr. Kendrick? With your money and professional reputation, you don't need it. And I can't imagine how you'd benefit, certainly not compared to what you could do in the private sector.'

'Do all people seeking elective office do so solely for personal gain?'

'No, of course not.' Swann paused, then shook his head. 'Sorry, that's too glib. It's a stock answer to a loaded stock question… Yes, Congressman, in my biased opinion, most ambitious men—and women—who run for such offices do so because of the exposure and, if they win, the clout. Combined, it all makes them very marketable. Sorry again, this is a cynic talking. But then I've been in this city for a long time and I see no reason to alter that judgment. And you confuse me. I know where you come from, and I've never heard of Colorado's ninth district. It sure as hell isn't Denver.'

'It's barely on the map,' said Kendrick, his voice noncommittal. 'It's at the base of the southwest Rockies, doing pretty much its own thing. That's why I built there. It's off the beaten track.'

'But why? Why politics? Did the boy-wonder of the Arab Emirates find a district he could carve out for his own base, a political launching pad maybe?'

'Nothing could have been farther from my mind.'

'That's a statement, Congressman. Not an answer.'

Evan Kendrick was momentarily silent, returning Swann's gaze. Then he shrugged his shoulders. Swann sensed a certain embarrassment. 'All right,' he said firmly. 'Let's call it an aberration that won't happen again. There was a vacuous, overbearing incumbent who was lining his pockets in a district that wasn't paying attention. I had time on my hands and a big mouth. I also had the money to bury him. I'm not necessarily proud of what I did or how I did it, but he's gone and I'll be out in two years or less. By then I'll have found someone better qualified to take my place.'

'Two years?' asked Swann. 'Come November it'll be a year since your election, correct?'

'That's right.'

'And you started serving last January?'

'So?'

'Well, I hate to disabuse you, but your term of office is for two years. You've either got one more year or three, but not two or less.'

'There's no real opposition party in the ninth, but to make sure the seat doesn't go to the old political machine, I agreed to stand for re-election—then resign.'

'That's some agreement.'

'It's binding as far as I'm concerned. I want out.'

'That's blunt enough, but it doesn't take into account a possible side effect.'

'I don't understand you.'

'Suppose during the next twenty-odd months you decide you like it here? What happens then?'

'It's not possible and it couldn't happen, Mr. Swann. Let's get back to Masqat. It's a goddamned mess, or do I have sufficient “clearance” to make that observation?'

'You're cleared because I'm the one who clears.' The deputy director shook his grey head. 'A goddamned mess, Congressman, and we're convinced it's externally programmed.'

'I don't think there's any question about it,' agreed Kendrick.

'Do you have any ideas?'

'A few,' answered the visitor. 'Wholesale destabilization's at the top of the list. Shut the country down and don't let anyone in.'

'A takeover?' asked Swann. 'A Khomeini-style Putsch?… It wouldn't work; the situation's different. There's no Peacock, no festering resentments, no SAVAK.' Swann paused, adding pensively, 'No Shah with an army of thieves and no Ayatollah with an army of fanatics. It's not the same.'

'I didn't mean to imply that it was. Oman's only the beginning. Whoever it is doesn't want to take over the country, he—or they—simply want to stop others from taking the money.'

'What? What money?'

'Billions. Long-range projects that are on drafting boards everywhere in the Persian Gulf, Saudi Arabia, and all of Southwest Asia, the only stable areas in that part of the world. What's happening over there now isn't much different from tying up the transport and the construction trades over here, or shutting down the piers in New York and New Orleans, Los Angeles and San Francisco. Nothing's legitimized by strikes or collective bargaining—there's just terror and the threats of more terror provided by whipped-up fanatics. And everything stops. The people at the drafting boards and those in the field on surveying teams and in equipment compounds just want to get out as fast as they can.'

'And once they're out,' added Swann quickly, ‘those behind the terrorists move in and the terror stops. It just goes away. Christ, it sounds like a waterfront Mafia operation!'

'Arabic style,' said Kendrick. 'To use your words, it wouldn't be the first time.'

'You know that for a fact?'

'Yes. Our company was threatened a number of times, but to quote you again, we had a secret weapon. Emmanuel Weingrass.'

'Weingrass? What the hell could he do?'

'Lie with extraordinary conviction. One moment he was a reserve general in the Israeli Army who could call an air strike on any Arab group who harassed or replaced us, and the next, he was a high-ranking member of the Mossad who would send out death squads eliminating even those who warned us. Like many ageing men of genius, Manny was frequently eccentric and almost always theatrical. He enjoyed himself. Unfortunately, his various wives rarely enjoyed him for very long. At any rate, no one wanted to tangle with a crazy Israeli. The tactics were too familiar.'

'Are you suggesting we recruit him?' asked the deputy director.

'No. Apart from his age, he's winding up his life in Paris with the most beautiful women he can hire and certainly with the most expensive brandy he can find. He couldn't help… But there's something you can do.'

'What's that?'

'Listen to me.' Kendrick leaned forward. 'I've been thinking about this for the past eight hours and with every hour I'm more convinced it's a possible explanation. The problem is that there are so few facts—almost none, really—but a pattern's there, and it's consistent with things we heard five years ago.'

'What things? What pattern?'

'Only rumours to begin with, then came the threats and they were threats. No one was kidding.'

'Go on. I'm listening.'

'While defusing those threats in his own way, usually with prohibited whisky, Weingrass heard something that made too much sense to be dismissed as drunken babbling. He was told that a consortium was silently being formed—an industrial cartel, if you like. It was quietly gaining control of dozens of different companies with growing resources in personnel, technology and equipment. The objective was obvious then, and if the information's accurate, even more obvious now. They intend to take over the industrial development of Southwest Asia. As far as Weingrass could learn, this underground federation was based in Bahrain—nothing surprising there—but what came as a shocker and amused the hell out of Manny was the fact that among the unknown board of directors was a man who called himself the “Mahdi”—like the Muslim fanatic who threw the British out of Khartoum a hundred years ago.'

'The Mahdi? Khartoum?'

'Exactly. The symbol's obvious. Except this new Mahdi doesn't give a damn about religious Islam, much less its screaming fanatics. He's using them to drive the competition out and keep it out. He wants the contracts and the profits in Arab hands—specifically his hands.'

'Wait a minute." Swann interrupted thoughtfully as he picked up his phone and touched a button on the console. 'This ties in with something that came from MI-6 in Masqat last night,' he continued quickly, looking at Kendrick. 'We couldn't follow it up because there wasn't anything to follow, no trail, but it sure as hell made wild reading… Get me Gerald Bryce, please… Hello, Gerry? Last night—actually around two o'clock this morning—we got a nothing-zero from the Brits in OHIO. I want you to find it and read it to me slowly because I'll be writing down every word.' The deputy covered the mouthpiece and spoke to his suddenly alert visitor. 'If anything you've said makes any sense at all, it may be the first concrete breakthrough we've had.'

'That's why I'm here, Mr. Swann, probably reeking of smoked fish.'

The deputy director nodded aimlessly, impatiently, waiting for the man he had called Bryce to return to the phone. 'A shower wouldn't hurt, Congressman… Yes, Gerry, go ahead!… “Do not look where you would logically expect to look. Search elsewhere.” Yes, I've got that. I remember that. It was right after, I think… “Where grievances are not born of poverty or abandonment.” That's it! And something else, right around there… “Where Allah has bestowed favour in this world, although perhaps not in the after one.”… Yes. Now go down a bit, something about whispers, that's all I remember… There! That's it. Give it to me again… “The whispers speak of those who will benefit from the bloodshed.” Okay, Gerry, that's what I needed. The rest was all negative, if I recall. No names, no organizations, just crap… That's what I thought… I don't know yet. If anything breaks, you'll be the first to know. In the meantime, oil up the equipment and work on a printout of all the construction firms in Bahrain. And if there's a listing for what we call general or industrial contractors, I want that, too… When? Yesterday for God's sake!' Swann hung up the phone, looked down at the phrases he had written, and then up at Kendrick.

'You heard the words, Congressman. Do you want me to repeat them?'

'It's not necessary. They're not kalam-faregh, are they?'

'No, Mr. Kendrick. none of it's garbage. It's all very pertinent and I wish to hell I knew what to do.'

'Recruit me, Mr. Swann,' said the congressman. 'Send me to Masqat on the fastest transport you can find.'

'Why?' asked the deputy, studying his visitor. 'What can you do that our own experienced men in the field can't? They not only speak fluent Arabic, most of them are Arabs.'

'And working for Consular Operations,' completed Kendrick.

'So?'

'They're marked. They were marked five years ago and they're marked now. If they make any miswired moves, you could have a dozen executions on your hands.'

That's an alarming statement,' said Swann slowly, his eyes narrowing as he looked at his visitor's face. 'They're marked? Would you care to explain it?'

'I told you a few minutes ago that your Cons Op briefly became a household name over there. You made a gratuitous remark about my elaborating on congressional rumours, but I wasn't. I meant what I said.'

'A household name?'

'I'll go further, if you like. A household joke. An ex-army engineer and Manny Weingrass even did a number on them.'

'A number…?'

'I'm sure it's in your files somewhere. We were approached by Hussein's people to submit plans for a new airfield after we'd completed one at Qufar in Saudi Arabia. The next day two of your men came to see us, asking technical questions, pressing the point that as Americans it was our duty to relay such information since Hussein frequently conferred with the Soviets—which, of course, was immaterial. An airport's an airport, and any damn fool can fly over an excavation site and determine the configuration.'

'What was the number?'

'Manny and the engineer told them that the two main runways were seven miles long, obviously designed for very special flying equipment. They ran out of the office as if both were struck by acute diarrhea.'

'And?' Swann leaned forward.

'The next day, Hussein's people called and told us to forget the project. We'd had visitors from Consular Operations. They didn't like that.'

The deputy director leaned back in his chair, his weary smile conveying futility. 'Sometimes it's all kind of foolish, isn't it?'

'I don't think it's foolish now,' offered Kendrick.

'No, of course it isn't.' Swann instantly sat forward in his chair. 'So the way you read it, this whole goddamned thing is all about money. Lousy money!'

'If it isn't stopped, it'll get worse,' said Kendrick. 'Much worse.'

'Jesus, how?

'Because it's a proven formula for economic takeover. Once they've crippled the government in Oman, they'll use the same tactics elsewhere. The Emirates, Bahrain, Qatar, even the Saudis. Whoever controls the fanatics gets the contracts, and with all those massive operations under one entity—regardless of the names they use—there's a dangerous political force in the area calling a lot of vital shots we definitely won't like.'

'Good Lord, you have thought this out.'

'I've done nothing else for the past eight hours.'

'Say I sent you over there, what could you do?'

'I won't know until I'm there, but I've got a few ideas. I know a number of influential men, powerful Omanis who know what goes on there and who couldn't possibly be any part of this insanity. For various reasons—probably the same mistrust we felt whenever your Cons Op flunkies showed up—they might not talk to strangers but they will talk to me. They trust me. I've spent days, weekends, with their families. I know their unveiled wives and their children—’

'Unveiled wives and children,' repeated Swann, interrupting. 'The ultimate shorbet in the Arab vocabulary. The broth of friendship.'

'A harmonious mixture of ingredients,' agreed the congressman from Colorado. 'They'll work with me, perhaps not with you. Also, I'm familiar with most of the suppliers on the docks and in the lading offices, even people who avoid anything official because they make money out of what you can't get officially. I want to trace the money and the instructions that come with the money and end up inside the embassy. Someone somewhere is sending both.'

'Suppliers?' asked Swann, his eyebrows arched, his voice incredulous. 'You mean like food and medical supplies, that kind of thing?'

'That's only—’

'Are you crazy?' exclaimed the deputy director. 'Those hostages are our people!. We've opened the vaults, anything they need, anything we can get to them!'

'Like bullets and weapons and spare parts for weapons?'

'Of course not!'

'From all the accounts I read, what I could get my hands on at the newsstands in Flagstaff and Phoenix, every night after el Maghreb there's four or five hours of fireworks—thousands of rounds shot off, whole sections of the embassy sprayed with rifle and machine-gun fire.'

'It's part of their goddamned terror!' exploded Swann. 'Can you imagine what it's like inside? Lined up against a wall under floodlights and all around you everything's being blasted with bullets, thinking, “Jesus, I'm going to be killed any second!” If we ever get those poor souls out, they'll be on couches for years trying to get rid of the nightmares!'

Kendrick let the emotion of the moment pass. 'Those hotheads don't have an arsenal in there, Mr. Swann. I don't think the people running them would allow it. They're supplied. Just as the mimeograph machines are supplied because they don't know how to operate your copiers and word processors for the daily bulletins they print for the television cameras. Please try to understand. Maybe one in twenty of those crazies has a minimum intellect, much less a thought-out ideological position. They're the manipulated dregs of humanity given their own hysterical moments in the sun. Maybe it's our fault, I don't know, but I do know they're being programmed, and you know it, too. And behind that programming is a man who wants all of Southwest Asia to himself.'

'This Mahdi?'

'Whoever he is, yes.'

'You think you can find him?'

'I'll need help. Getting out of the airport, Arab clothes; I'll make a list.'

The deputy director again leaned back in his chair, his fingers touching his chin. 'Why, Congressman? Why do you want to do this? Why does Evan Kendrick, multi-millionaire-entrepreneur want to put his very rich life on the line? There's nothing left for you over there. Why?'

'I suppose the simplest and most honest answer is that I might be able to help. As you've pointed out, I made a lot of money over there. Maybe this is the time to give a little of myself back.'

'If it was just money or “a little” of yourself, I'd have no trouble with that,' said Swann. 'But if I let you go, you'll be walking into a minefield and no training on how to survive. Has that thought struck you, Congressman? It should have.'

'I don't intend to storm the embassy,' answered Evan Kendrick.

'You might not have to. Just ask the wrong person the wrong question and the results could be the same.'

'I could also be in a cab at Twenty-third Street and Virginia Avenue at noontime today and be in an accident.'

'I presume that means you were.'

'The point is I wasn't driving. I was in a taxi. I'm careful, Mr. Swann, and in Masqat, I know my way around the traffic, which isn't as unpredictable as Washington's.'

'Were you ever in military service?'

'No.'

'You were the right age for Vietnam, I'd guess. Any explanation?'

'I had a graduate school deferment. It kept me out.'

'Have you ever handled a gun?'

I've had limited experience.'

'Which means you know where the trigger is and which end to point.'

'I said limited, not imbecilic. During the early days in the Emirates, we kept ourselves armed at our construction sites. Sometimes later also.'

'Ever had to fire one?' pressed the deputy director.

'Certainly,' replied Kendrick, his voice calm, not rising to the bait. 'So I could learn where the trigger was and which end to point.'

'Very funny, but what I meant was did you ever have to fire a gun at another human being?'

'Is this necessary?'

'Yes, it is. I have to make a judgment.'

'All right then; yes, I did.'

'When was that?'

'When were they,' corrected the congressman. 'Among my partners and our American crew was a geologist, an equipment-logistics man, and several refugees from the Army Corps of Engineers—foreman types. We made frequent trips to potential sites for soil and shale testings and to set up fenced compounds for machinery. We drove a camper, and on several occasions we were attacked by bandits—wandering nomad gangs looking for strays. They've been a problem for years, and the authorities warn everyone heading into the interior to protect themselves. Not much different from any large city over here. I used a gun then.'

'To frighten or to kill, Mr. Kendrick?'

'By and large to frighten, Mr. Swann. However, there were times when we had to kill. They wanted to kill us. We reported all such incidents to the authorities.'

'I see,' said the deputy director of Consular Operations. 'What kind of shape are you in?'

The visitor shook his head in exasperation. 'I smoke an occasional cigar or a cigarette after a meal, Doctor, and I drink moderately. I do not, however, lift weights or run in marathons. However, again, I do ride Class Five white water and backpack in the mountains whenever I can. I also think this is a bunch of bullshit.'

'Think what you like, Mr. Kendrick, but we're pressed for time. Simple, direct questions can help us assess a person just as accurately as a convoluted psychiatric report from one of our clinics in Virginia.'

'Blame that on the psychiatrists.'

'Tell me about it,' said Swann, with a hostile chuckle.

'No, you tell me,' countered the visitor. 'Your show-and-tell games are over. Do I go or don't I, and if not, why not?'

Swann looked up. 'You go, Congressman. Not because you're an ideal choice but because I don't have a choice. I'll try anything, including an arrogant son of a bitch which, under that cool exterior, I think you probably are.'

'You're probably right,' said Kendrick. 'Can you give me briefing papers on whatever you've got?'

'They'll be delivered to the plane before takeoff at Andrews Air Force Base. But they can't leave that plane, Congressman, and you can't make any notes. Someone will be watching you.'

'Understood.'

'Are you sure? We'll give you whatever deep cover help we can under severe restrictions, but you're a private citizen acting on your own, your political position notwithstanding. In short words, if you're taken by hostile elements, we don't know you. We can't help you then. We won't risk the lives of two hundred and thirty-six hostages. Is that understood?'

'Yes, it is, because it's directly in line with what I made clear when I walked in here. I want a written guarantee of anonymity. I was never here. I never saw you, and I never talked to you. Send a memo up to the Secretary of State. Say you had a phone call from a political ally of mine in Colorado mentioning my name and telling you that with my background you should get in touch with me. You rejected the approach, believing it was just another politician trying to make mileage out of the State Department—that shouldn't be difficult for you.' Kendrick pulled out a notepad from his jacket pocket and reached over, picking up Swann's pencil. 'Here's the address of my attorney in Washington. Have a copy delivered to him by messenger before I get on the plane at Andrews. When he tells me it's there, I'll get on board.'

'Our mutual objective here is so clear and so clean I should be congratulating myself,' said Swann. 'So why don't I? Why do I keep thinking there's something you're not telling me?'

'Because you're suspicious by nature and profession. You wouldn't be in that chair if you weren't.'

'This secrecy you're so insistent on—’

'Apparently so are you,' Kendrick broke in.

'I've given you my reason. There are two hundred and thirty-six people out there. We're not about to give anyone an excuse to pull a trigger. You, on the other hand, if you don't get killed, have a lot to gain. What's your reason for this secrecy?'

'Not much different from yours,' said the visitor. 'I made a great many friends throughout the whole area. I've kept up with a lot of them; we correspond; they visit me frequently—our associations are no secret. If my name surfaced, some zealots might consider jaremat thadr.'

'Penalty for friendship,' translated Swann.

'The climate's right for it,' added Kendrick.

'I suppose that's good enough,' said the deputy director without much conviction. 'When do you want to leave?'

'As soon as possible. There's nothing to straighten out here. I'll grab a cab, go home, and change clothes—'

'No cabs, Congressman. From here on until you get to Masqat you're listed as a government liaison under an available cover and flying military transport. You're under wraps.' Swann reached for his phone. 'You'll be escorted down to the ramp where an unmarked car will drive you home and then on to Andrews. For the next twelve hours you're government property, and you'll do what we tell you to do.'

Evan Kendrick sat in the back seat of the unmarked State Department car staring out of the window at the lush foliage along the Potomac. Soon the driver would veer to the left and enter a long wooded corridor of Virginia greenery five minutes from his house. His isolated house, he reflected, his very lonely house, despite a live-in couple who were old friends and the discreet, though not excessive, procession of graceful women who shared his bed, also friends.

Four years and nothing permanent. Permanency for him was half a world away where nothing was permanent but the constant necessity of moving from one job to the next, finding the best quarters available for everyone, and making sure that tutors were available for his partners' children—children he wished at times were his; specific children, of course. But for him there had never been time for marriage and children; ideas were his wives, projects his offspring. Perhaps this was why he had been the leader; he had no domestic distractions. The women he made love to were mostly driven like himself. Again, like himself, they sought the temporary exhilaration, even the comfort, of brief affairs, but the operative word was ‘temporary'. And then in those wonderful years there was the excitement and the laughter, the hours of fear and the moments of elation when a project's results exceeded their expectations. They were building an empire—a small one, to be sure—but it would grow, and in time, as Weingrass insisted, the children of the Kendrick Group would go to the best schools in Switzerland, only a few hours away by air. 'They'll become a boardroom of international mensch!' Manny had roared. 'All that fine education and all those languages. We're rearing the greatest collection of statesmen and stateswomen since Disraeli and Golda!'

'Uncle Manny, can we go fishing?' a young spokesman would invariably implore, wide-eyed conspirators behind him.

'Of course, David—such a glorious name. The river is only a few kilometers away. We'll all catch whales, I promise you!'

'Manny, please.' One of the mothers would invariably object. 'Their homework.'

'That work is for home—study your syntax. Whales are in the river!'

All that was permanence for Evan Kendrick. And suddenly it had all been shattered, a thousand broken mirrors in the sunlight, each fragment of bloody glass reflecting an image of lovely reality and wondrous expectations. All the mirrors had turned black, no reflections anywhere. Death.

'Don't do it!' screamed Emmanuel Weingrass. 'I feel the pain as much as you. But don't you see, it's what they want you to do, expect you to do! Don't give them—don't give him—that gratification! Fight them, fight him! I will fight with you. Show me your posture, boy!'

'For whom, Manny? Against whom?'

'You know as well as I do! We're only the first; others will follow. Other “accidents”, loved ones killed, projects abandoned. You will allow that?'

'I simply don't care.'

'So you let him win?'

'Who?'

'The Mahdi!'

'A drunken rumour, nothing more.'

'He did it! He killed them! I know it!'

'There's nothing here for me, old friend, and I can't chase shadows. There's no fun any longer. Forget it, Manny, I'll make you rich.'

'I don't want your coward money!'

'You won't take it?'

'Of course I'll take it. I simply don't love you any more.'

Then four years of anxiety, futility and boredom, wondering when the warm wind of love or the cold wind of hate would blow across the smouldering coals inside him. He had told himself over and over again that when the fires suddenly erupted, for whatever reason, the time would be right and he would be ready. He was ready now and no one could stop him. Hate.

The Mahdi.

You took the lives of my closest friends as surely as if you had installed that conduit yourself. I had to identify so many bodies; the broken, twisted, bleeding bodies of the people who meant so much to me. The hatred remains, and it's deep and cold and won't go away and let me live my life until you're dead. I have to go back and pick up the pieces, be my own self again and finish what all of us were building together. Manny was right. I ran away, forgiving myself because of the pain, forgetting the dreams we had. I'll go back and finish now. I'm coming after you, Mahdi, whoever you are, wherever you are. And no one will know I was there.

'Sir? Sir, we're here.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'This is your house,' said the marine driver. 'I guess you were catching a nap, but we have a schedule to keep.'

'No nap, Corporal, but, of course, you're right.' Kendrick gripped the handle and opened the door. 'I'll only be twenty minutes or so… Why don't you come in? The maid'll get you a snack or a cup of coffee while you wait.'

'I wouldn't get out of this car, sir.'

'Why not?'

'You're with OHIO. I'd probably get shot.'

Stunned, and halfway out of the door, Evan Kendrick turned and looked behind him. At the end of the street, the deserted tree-lined street without a house in sight, a lone car was parked at the curb. Inside, two figures sat motionless in the front seat.

For the next twelve hours you're government property, and you'll do what we tell you to do.

The silhouetted figure walked rapidly into the windowless sterile room, closed the door and in the darkness continued to the table where there was the small brass lamp. He turned it on and went directly to his equipment that covered the right wall. He sat down in front of the processor, touched the switch that brought the screen to life, and typed in the code.

Ultra Maximum Secure

No Existing Intercepts

Proceed

He continued his journal, his fingers trembling with elation.

Everything is in motion now. The subject is on his way, the journey begun. I cannot, of course, project the obstacles facing him, much less his success or failure. I only know through my highly developed 'appliances' that he is uniquely qualified. One day we will be able to factor in more accurately the human quotient but that day is not yet here. Nevertheless, if he survives lightning will strike; my projections make that clear from a hundred different successfully factored options. The small circle of need-to-know officials have been alerted through ultra max modem communications. Child's play for my appliances.