The Icarus Agenda

Chapter 36

Kendrick walked along Denver's Seventeenth Street towards the Brown Palace Hotel barely aware of the light snow that was floating down from the night sky. He had told the cabdriver to let him off several blocks away; he wanted to walk; he had to clear his mind.

The doctors at the Denver General had patched Manny up, relieving Evan by explaining that the wounds, although messy, consisted mainly of embedded fragments of glass and metal. The loss of blood was considerable for a man of his age but not critical; it would be replaced. The bewilderment started when Kendrick took one of the doctors aside and told him about Weingrass's concern that the cancer had returned. Within twenty minutes all of Manny's tests had been electronically transmitted from Washington, and the chief oncologist had spoken to the DC surgeon who had operated on the old architect. Then about two hours into his four-hour stay at the hospital, a technician had arrived from some laboratory or other and conferred quietly with another doctor. There had been a mild flurry of activity and Evan was asked to leave the room while various samples were taken from Manny's body. An hour after that the chief of pathology, a thin man with inquisitive eyes, approached Kendrick in the waiting room.

'Congressman, has Mr. Weingrass been out of the country recently?'

'Not within the past year, no.'

'Where was that?'

'France… Southwest Asia.'

The doctor's eyebrows had arched. 'My geography's not very good. Where is Southwest Asia?'

'Is this necessary?'

'Yes, it is.'

'Oman and Bahrain.'

'He was with you?… Excuse me, but your exploits are common knowledge.'

'He was with me,' answered Evan. 'He's one of the people I couldn't thank publicly because it wouldn't be in his interest.'

'I understand. We have no press office here.'

'Thank you. Why do you ask?'

'Unless I'm mistaken, and I could be, he's infected with a—let's say a virus—that to the best of my knowledge is indigenous to central Africa.'

"That couldn't be.'

'Then perhaps I'm wrong. Our equipment is among the finest in the West, but there's better. I'm having lung tissue and blood samples sent to the CDC in Atlanta.'

The what?'

'Centers for Disease Control.'

'Disease?'

'It's just a precaution, Mr. Kendrick.'

'Have them flown there tonight, Doctor. There'll be a jet waiting at Stapleton Airport within the hour. Tell Atlanta to go to work the minute your findings arrive—I'll pay whatever the cost even if they have to stay there around the clock.'

‘I’ll do what I can—’

'If it would help,' said Evan, not sure whether he was bluffing or not, ‘I’ll have the White House call them.'

'I don't think that will be necessary,' said the pathologist.

As he left the hospital, having said good night to a heavily sedated Manny, he remembered the vanished Dr Lyons of Mesa Verde, the physician without an address or a telephone but with full government clearance to be presented to a congressman and/or his staff. What clearance? Why was clearance necessary?… Or was it simply a very impressive document, a device for slipping into the private world of one Evan Kendrick? He decided to say nothing to anyone. Khalehla would know better what to do.

He approached the Brown Palace and was suddenly aware through the falling snow of the coloured lights on the Christmas decorations extending across the wide avenue from the old classic structure to the new south Tower. Then he heard the strains of a carol filling the street. Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa-la-la-la-la… la-la-la-la. Merry Christmas from the legacy of Masqat, he thought.

'Where the hell have you been?' shouted MJ Payton, causing Khalehla to hold the telephone away from her ear.

'Having dinner.'

'He's there! Our blond European is in the hotel!'

'I know. I had dinner with him.'

'You what?'

'As a matter of fact, he's here in my room now. We're going over what we know. He's not what we thought.'

'Damn you, Adrienne! Tell that son of a bitch Mr. B would like to talk to Mr. A!'

'Good God, you were the one?'

'Cap it, Rashad! Put him on the line.'

I'm not sure he'll agree.' The agent from Cairo again had to pull the phone away. She turned to Varak. 'A Mr. B would like to talk to Mr. A.'

'I should have known,' said the Czech, getting out of the chair. He walked to the bedside telephone as Khalehla relinquished it and moved away. 'Greetings again, Mr. B. Nothing has changed, you understand. No names, no identities.'

'What does my niece call you? Mind you, she's my niece.'

'She calls me by the erroneous name of Milos.'

'Meelos? Slavic?'

'American, sir.'

'I forgot, you made that clear.'

The Secretary of State, please?'

'He's arrived in Cyprus.'

I'm relieved.'

'We all are, if, indeed, there was cause for alarm to begin with.'

'The information was accurate.'

'Unfortunately, we haven't been able to confirm it at our end. Grinell wasn't at the hotel and he hasn't shown up at his residence.'

'He's with the Vanvlanderen woman.'

'Yes, we know. According to a desk clerk, there were several others with them both. Any ideas?'

'Grinell's guards, according to the information I received. I mentioned to you that there were men with him, that you should be prepared.'

'Yes, you did… Do we work together?'

'From a distance.'

'What have you got to offer?'

'Proof of certain things I've told Miss Rashad,' replied Varak, thinking of the edited tapes and transcripts he would give to the intelligence officer—edited so that Eric Sundstrom would remain an anonymous conspirator; a dead man did not need an identity. 'Perhaps nothing more, but it's the core of what you need.'

'It will be gratefully accepted.'

'However, there's a price, Mr. B.'

'I don't make payments—’

'Of course you do,' broke in the Czech. 'You do so all the time.'

'What is it?'

'As long as my demands require a complicated explanation, I'll let Miss Rashad tell you in her own words. I'll reach her tomorrow and we'll communicate through her. If your answer is positive I will arrange for the delivery of my material to you.'

'And if it's not?'

'Then I'd advise you to weigh the consequences, Mr. B.'

'Let me speak to my niece, if you please?'

'As you wish.' Varak turned to Khalehla and handed her the telephone as he headed back to his chair.

'I'm here,' said Rashad.

'Just answer yes or no, and if you can't answer, stay silent for a second or two. All right?'

'Yes.'

'Are you safe?'

'Yes.'

'Would his material help us?'

'Yes—emphatically.'

'Just “yes” is sufficient, Agent Rashad… He's obviously staying at the hotel—do you think he'll remain there?'

'No.'

'Has he given you any information as to how he got the Oman file?'

'No.'

'Lastly, can we live with his demands?'

'We're going to—sorry to break the rules.'

'I see,' said the astonished director of Special Projects. 'You will explain that extraordinary and extraordinarily insubordinate statement to me, won't you?'

'We'll talk later." Khalehla hung up the phone and turned to Varak. 'My superior's upset.'

'With you or with me? It wasn't difficult to imagine the gist of his questions.'

'With both of us.'

'Is he really your uncle?'

'I've known him for over twenty years and that's enough about him. Let's talk about you for a moment. It wasn't difficult to imagine a couple of his questions to you, either.'

'Only a moment, please,' insisted the Czech. 'I really must leave.'

'You told him that Grinell was with the Vanvlanderen woman and that the others were Grinell's guards.'

'I did.'

'Yet you told me that there were two men in the Vanvlanderen suite and that the guards were outside.'

That's true.'

'Who was that other man, and why are you protecting him?'

'Protecting? … I believe I also told you that they were both traitors. You'll hear that on the tapes, read it on the transcripts I'll deliver to you if your superior agrees to my conditions, as you have agreed.'

'I'll convince him.'

'Then you'll hear for yourself.'

'But you know him! Who is he?'

Varak got out of the chair, his hands pressed in front of him. 'Again, we are off limits, Miss Rashad. But I'll tell you this much. He's the reason I must leave. He's human filth, whatever words you care to use… and he's mine. I'll scour this city all night until I find him, and if I don't, I know where I can find him, tomorrow or the next day. I repeat, he's mine.'

'A jaremat thaár, Mr. Milos?"

'I do not speak Arabic, Miss Rashad.'

'But you know what it means, I've told you.'

'Good night,' said the Czech, going to the door.

'My uncle wants to know how you got the Oman file. I don't think he'll stop hunting you down until he finds out.'

'We all have our priorities,' said Varak, turning, his hand on the knob. 'Right now his and yours are in San Diego and mine are elsewhere. Tell him that he has nothing to fear from my source. He would go to his grave before endangering one of your people, one of our people.'

'Goddamn you, he already has! Evan Kendrick!' The telephone rang; they both whipped their heads around, staring at it. Khalehla picked it up. 'Yes?'

'It happened!’ cried Payton in Langley, Virginia. 'Oh, my God, they did it!'

'What is it?'

'The Larnaca Hotel in Cyprus! The west wing was blown up; there's nothing left, just debris. The Secretary of State's dead, they're all dead!'

'The hotel in Cyprus,' repeated Khalehla, looking at the Czech, her voice a frightened monotone. 'It was blown up, the Secretary's dead, they're all dead…'

'Give me that phone!' roared Varak, rushing across the room and grabbing it. 'Did no one check the cellars, the air conditioning ducts, the structural underpinnings?'

'The Cypriot security forces claimed they checked everything—’

'Cypriot security?' yelled the furious Czech. 'It's riddled with a dozen hostile elements! Fools, fools, fools!'

'Do you want my job, Mr. A?'

'I wouldn't take it,' said Varak, controlling his anger, lowering his voice. 'I do not work with amateurs,' he added contemptuously, hanging up and going to the door. He turned and spoke to Khalehla. 'What was needed here today were the brains of Kendrick of Oman. He would have been the first to tell all of you what to do, what to look for. And you probably would not have listened to him.' The Czech opened the door, let himself out, and slammed it shut.

The telephone rang. 'He's gone,' said Rashad, picking it up, knowing instinctively who was on the line.

'I offered him my job, but he made it clear that he didn't work with amateurs… Strange, isn't it? A man without any credentials that we know about alerts us, and we blow it. And a year ago, we send Kendrick to Oman and he does what five hundred professionals from at least six countries couldn't do. It makes you wonder, doesn't it… I'm getting old.'

'No way, MJ!' cried the agent from Cairo. 'They happen to be bright guys and they hit jackpots, that's all. You've done more than they'll ever do!'

‘I'd like to believe that, but tonight's pretty horrible for whatever ego I've got left.'

'Which should be a bunch!… But it's also a good moment for me to explain that insubordinate remark I made to you a few minutes ago.'

'Please do. I'm receptive. I'm not even sure I have a hell of a lot of breath left.'

'Whomever Milos works for, they want nothing from Evan. When I pressed him, he pointed out the obvious. If they made any demands on him, he'd throw them to the wolves, and he's right, Evan would.'

'I also agree. So what does he want?'

'To back off and let events take their course. They want us to let the race go on.'

'Evan won't run—'

'He may when he learns about the black knights who are running things in California. Say we stop them; there are hundreds more waiting to take their places. Milos is right, a voice is needed.'

'But what do you say, niece?'

'I want him alive, not dead. He can't go back to the Emirates—he may persuade himself that he can but he'd be killed the moment he got off the plane. And he can't vegetate in Mesa Verde, not with his energy and imagination—that's a form of death, too, you know… The country could do worse, MJ.'

'Fools, fools!' whispered Varak to himself as he dialled while studying a diagram of the Vanvlanderen suite in his hand; there were small red Xs marked in each room. Seconds later a voice was on the other end of the line.

'Yes?'

'Sound Man?'

'Prague?'

'I need you."

'I can always use your money. You roll high.'

'Pick me up in thirty minutes, the service entrance. I'll explain what I want you to do on the way to your studio… There are no changes in the diagram?'

'No. You found the key?'

'Thank you for both.'

'You paid. Thirty minutes.'

The Czech hung up the phone and looked at the packed recording equipment in front of the door. He had listened to Rashad's interview with Ardis Vanvlanderen, and despite his anger over the tragedy of the Secretary of State's death, he had smiled—grimly to be sure—at the bold strategy employed by the field agent from Cairo and her superior. Based on what they had learned, they had gambled on the presumed truth of Andrew Vanvlanderen's actions and turned it into an irresistible lie: Palestinian hit teams, the target Bollinger, Kendrick never even mentioned! Brilliant! The appearance of Eric Sundstrom within two hours of Rashad's astonishing, convoluted information—an appearance designed to trap a traitor of Inver Brass and not based on any presumption of

Vanvlanderen's guilt—had completed a detonation that blew apart the cemented structure of deceit in San Diego. One took things where one could find them.

Varak went to the door, opened it cautiously and slipped out into the corridor. He walked rapidly to the Vanvlanderen suite down the hall and with the key provided by the Sound Man let himself inside, the diagram still in his hand. With swift catlike strides he went from room to room removing the tiny electronic intercepts from their recesses—under tables and chairs, secreted beneath the deep cushions of the sofa, behind mirrors in the four bedrooms, under the medicine cabinets in the various bathrooms and inside two burners in the kitchen. He left the widow's office for last, counting the red Xs, satisfied that he had collected every tap so far. The office was dark; he found the desk lamp and switched it on. Ten seconds later he pocketed the four intercepts, three from the office itself, one from the small attached bathroom, and concentrated on the desk. He looked at his watch; the dismantling operation had taken nine minutes, leaving him at least fifteen to examine Mrs. Vanvlanderen's domestic inner sanctum.

He started with the desk drawers, pulling one out after another, riffling through meaningless papers devoted to vice presidential trivia—schedules, letters from individuals and institutions deemed worthy of answering some day, position papers from the White House, State, Defense and various other administrative agencies that had to be studied so they could be explained to Orson Bollinger. There was nothing of value, nothing at all related to the subterranean manipulations taking place in southern California.

He looked around the large panelled office, at the bookshelves, the graceful furniture and the framed photographs on the walls… photographs. There were over twenty of them scattered about the dark panelling in crisscrossing patterns. He walked over and began examining them, snapping on a table lamp for better light. They were the usual collection of self-aggrandizing pictures showing Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Vanvlanderen in the company of political heavyweights, from the President down through the upper ranks of the administration and Congress. Then on the adjacent wall were photographs of the widow herself without her late husband. Judging from appearances these were obviously from Ardis Vanvlanderen's past, a personal testimonial that made clear her past was not inconsequential. Expensive cars, yachts, ski slopes and luxurious furs predominated.

Varak was about to abandon the panoply of conceit when his eyes fell on an enlarged candid shot obviously taken in Lausanne, Switzerland, Lake Geneva's northern Leman Marina in the background. Milos studied the face of the dark-skinned man standing beside the effervescent centre of attraction. He knew that face but he could not place it. Then, as if following a scent, the Czech's eyes roamed down to the lower right, to another enlarged snapshot also taken in Lausanne, this in the gardens of the Beau Rivage. There was the same man again—who was he? And next to it yet another, now in Amsterdam, in the Rozengracht, the same two subjects. Who was that man? Concentrate! Images came, fragments of elusive impressions but no name. Riyadh… Medina, Saudi Arabia. A shocked and furious Saudi family… a scheduled execution, then an escape. Millions upon millions had been involved… eight to ten years ago. Who was he? Varak considered taking one of the photographs, then instinctively knew he should not. Whoever the man was, he represented another telling aspect of the machine built around Orson Bollinger. A missing photograph of that face might send out alarms.

Milos turned off the table lamp and started back towards the desk. It was time to leave, to get his equipment and meet the Sound Man down in the street outside the service entrance. He reached for the dome-shaped lamp on the desk when suddenly he heard the door opening in the foyer. Swiftly he turned off the light and moved to the office door, partially closing it so he could slip behind and watch through the space of the hinged panel.

The tall figure came into view, a lone man walking confidently into familiar surroundings. Varak frowned for an instant; he had not thought about the intruder for weeks. It was the red-haired FBI agent from Mesa Verde, a member of the unit assigned to the Vice President at the request of Ardis Vanvlanderen—the man who had led him to San Diego. Milos was momentarily bewildered, but only momentarily. The unit had been recalled to Washington, yet one player had remained behind—more accurately, one had been bought before Varak had found him in Mesa Verde.

The Czech watched as the red-headed man walked around the living room as if looking for something. He picked up a glass from beneath an ivory-shelled lamp on a table to the left of the couch then went through a door leading to the kitchen. He returned moments later with a spray can in one hand, a dishtowel in the other. He crossed to the bar where he picked up each bottle separately, spraying each and wiping it clean. He next sprayed the copper rim of the bar top and rubbed it thoroughly with the cloth. From the bar he proceeded to go to every solid piece of furniture in the sunken living room and repeated the cleaning process as if he were purifying the premises. What he was doing was apparent to Varak: the agent was eliminating the forensic presence of Eric Sundstrom, removing the scientist's fingerprints from the area.

The man put down the spray can and the towel on the coffee table, then casually started across the room… towards the office! The Czech spun silently out from behind the partially closed door and raced into the small bathroom, closing its door, now more than partially, leaving barely an inch between the edge and the frame. As Milos had done, the FBI agent turned on the desk lamp, sat down in the chair and opened the lower right-hand drawer. However, he did something that Varak had not done: he pressed an unseen button. Instantly, the vertical moulding of the desk shot out.

'Jesus Christ!' said the red-haired man to himself, his stunned cry a whisper as he peered into an obviously empty recess. Without wasting motion, he reached for the telephone on the desk, almost ripping it out and dialling. Within seconds he spoke. 'It's not here!' he cried. 'No, I'm certain!' he added after a pause. 'There's nothing!… What do you want from me? I followed your instructions and I'm telling you there's not a goddamned thing!… What? Down the street from your house? All right, I'll get on it and call you back.' The agent depressed the telephone plate, released it, and dialled eleven digits: long distance. 'Base Five, this is Blackbird, special assignment San Diego, code six-six-zero. Confirm, please… Thank you. Do we have vehicles in La Jolla I don't know about?… We don't… No, nothing urgent, probably the press. They must have found out the VP is going to an art show soiree—you got that, soiree—with the fruitcake crowd. He wouldn't know a Rembrandt from Al Capp, but he's got to fake it. I'll check it out, forget it.' Again the lanky red-haired man hung up and redialled. 'There's nothing from our side,' he said quietly, almost immediately. 'No, there's no law that says we have to be told… CIA? We'd be the last to know… Okay, I'll call the airport. Do you want me to reach your pilot?… Whatever you say, then I'm getting out of here. The Agency and the Bureau don't mix, we never have.' The FBI man hung up as Varak stepped out of the dark bathroom, his thin black automatic in his hand.

'You're not getting out of here that fast,' said the coordinator of Inver Brass.

'Christ!' screamed the red-headed agent, lunging out of the chair and hurling himself at Varak in the doorway, gripping the Czech's right wrist with the strength of a panicked animal, propelling Milos back into the wall above the toilet, crashing Varak's head into the tastefully papered plasterboard. The Czech straddled the lavatory basin in the dark bathroom, whipping his left leg around the man's torso and levering it while yanking his right hand and gun straight up, half tearing the agent's left arm out of its socket. It was over; the man collapsed on the floor, gripping his damaged arm as if it were broken.

'Get up,' said Varak, the weapon at his side, not bothering to level it at his prisoner. The red-haired man struggled, wincing while he pulled himself up by the rim of the marble wash basin. 'Go back in there and sit down,' ordered Milos, shoving the agent through the door to the desk.

'Who the hell are you?' asked the man breathlessly, plummeting into the chair, still holding his arm.

'We've met, but you wouldn't know about it. A country road in Mesa Verde, west of a certain congressman's house.'

‘That was you?' The agent shot forward, only to be pushed back by Varak.

'When did you sell out, Federal man?'

The agent studied Milos in the wash of the desk lamp. 'If you're some kind of naturalized spook from a cross-over unit, you'd better get one thing straight. I'm here on special assignment to the Vice President.'

'A “cross-over” unit? I see you've been talking to some very excitable people… There is no cross-over unit and those vehicles around Grinell's house were dispatched from Washington—’

'They weren't! I just checked!'

'Perhaps the Bureau wasn't informed, or perhaps you were lied to, it doesn't matter. Like all privileged soldiers from elite organizations, I'm sure you can claim that you were merely following orders, as in removing fingerprints and searching for hidden documents of which you know nothing.'

'I don't!'

'But you did sell out and that's all that matters to me. You were prepared to accept money and privileges for services rendered under your official status. Are you also prepared to lose your life for these people?'

'What?'

'Now, you get this straight,' said Varak quietly, raising his automatic and suddenly pressing it into the agent's forehead. 'Whether you live or die means absolutely nothing to me, but there's a man I must find. Tonight.'

'You don't know Grinell—’

'Grinell is immaterial to me, leave him to others. The man I want is the one whose fingerprints you so carefully removed from this apartment. You'll tell me where he is right now or your brains will be all over this desk, and I will not bother to clean them up. The scene will add a further convincing nuance of evil consistent with everything that's taking place out here… Where is he?'

His entire body trembling, his breath short, the red-haired man spat out the words rapidly. 'I don't know and I'm not lying! I was ordered to meet them on a side street near the beach in Coronado. I swear I don't know where they were going.'

'You just called.'

'It's a cellular phone. He's mobile.'

'Who was in Coronado?'

'Just Grinell and this other guy who told me where he walked and everything he touched here in Vanvlanderen's place.'

'Where was she?'

'I don't know. Maybe she was sick or had an accident. There was an ambulance across the road from Grinell's limo.'

'But you do know where they're going. You were about to call the airport. What were your instructions?'

'To have maintenance get the plane ready for takeoff in an hour.'

'Where is the plane?'

'San Diego International. The private strip south of the main runways.'

'What's the destination?'

'That's between Grinell and his pilot. He never tells anyone.'

'You offered to call the pilot. What's his number?'

'Christ, I don't know! If Grinell wanted me to call him, he would have told me. He didn't.'

'Give me the cellular number.' The agent did and the Czech committed it to memory. 'You're certain it's accurate?'

'Go ahead and try it.'

Varak pulled the gun away and replaced it in his shoulder holster. 'I heard a term tonight that fits you, Federal man. Scum-rotten, that's what you are. But as I said, you're of no consequence to me, so I'm going to let you go. Perhaps you can start building your defences as the obedient soldier betrayed by his superiors, or perhaps you'd be better off heading to Mexico and points south. I don't know and I don't care. But if you call that mobile phone, you're a dead man. Do you understand that?'

'I just want to get out of here,' said the agent, bolting out of the chair and running into the sunken living room towards the marble steps and the foyer door.

'So do I,' whispered Milos to himself. He looked at his watch; he was late for the Sound Man downstairs. No matter, he thought, the man was quick and would quickly grasp what he wanted from the tapes and the transcripts. Then he would borrow the Sound Man's car and park it in the lot at San Diego's International Airport. There on a private strip south of the main runways he would find the traitor of Inver Brass. He would find him and kill him.

The telephone rang, jarring Kendrick out of a fitful sleep. Disoriented, his eyes centered on a hotel window and the heavy snow whirling in circles in the winds beyond the glass. The phone rang again; blinking, he found the source, turned on the bedside lamp and picked it up, glancing at his watch as he did so. It was five-twenty in the morning. Khalehla?'

'Yes, hello?'

'Atlanta stayed up all night,' said the hospital's chief of pathology. 'They just called me and I thought you'd want to know.'

'Thank you, Doctor.'

'You may not care to. All the tests are positive, I'm afraid.'

'Cancer?' asked Evan, swallowing.

'No. I could give you the medical term but it wouldn't mean anything to you. You could call it a form of salmonella, a strain of virus that attacks the lungs, clotting the blood until it closes off the oxygen. I can understand why, on the surface, Mr. Weingrass thought it was the cancer. It's not, but that's no gift.'

'The cure?' said Kendrick, gripping the phone.

After a brief silence, the pathologist replied quietly. 'None known. It's irreversible. In the African Kasai districts they slaughter the cattle and burn them, raze whole villages and burn them, too.'

'I don't give a goddamn about cattle and African villages!… I'm sorry, I don't mean to yell at you.'

'It's perfectly all right, it goes with the job. I looked on the map; he must have eaten in an Omani restaurant that served central African food for imported labourers perhaps. Unclean dishes, that sort of thing. It's the way it's transmitted.

‘You don't know Emmanuel Weingrass; those are the last places he'd eat… No, Doctor, it wasn't transmitted, it was planted.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Nothing. How long has he got?'

'The CDC says it can vary. A month to three, perhaps four. No more than six.'

'May I tell him it could stretch to a couple of years.'

'You can tell him anything you like, but he may tell you otherwise. His breathing isn't going to get any easier. Oxygen will have to be readily available.'

'It will be. Thank you, Doctor.'

'I'm sorry, Mr. Kendrick.'

Evan got out of the bed and paced in growing anger about the room. A phantom doctor unknown in Mesa Verde but not unknown to certain officials in the United States government. A pleasant doctor who only wished to take a little blood… and then disappeared. Suddenly Evan shouted, his cry hoarse, the tears rolling down his face. 'Lyons, where are you? I'll find you!'

In frenzy he smashed his fist through the window nearest him, shattering the glass so that the wind and the snow careened through the room.