The Icarus Agenda (90 page)

“I’d like to think you believe that, but if you do, I’m afraid you’re terribly wrong. When you contract the talents of someone like your European, you can’t divorce yourself from his methods.… As we’ve pieced it together they include political extortion through blackmail, the corruption of the legislative process, the theft of maximum-classified documents and indirectly causing the death and maiming of numerous government personnel—and finally murder. Code name
S
was terminated.”

“Oh, dear
God
 …!”

“That’s who you were playing—”

“You don’t understand, Mitchell, that’s not the way things
happened
!”

“On the contrary, it’s exactly the way they happened.”

“I know nothing about such things, you
must
believe that.”

“I do because you employed a skilled professional for results, not for giving you explanations.”

“ ‘Employed’ is too simplistic a term! He was a dedicated man who had his own mission in life.”

“So I was told,” interrupted Payton. “He came from a country whose government had been stolen from its people.”

“What do you think is happening
here
?” said the leader of Inver Brass, his words now controlled but the depth of their meaning clear.

It was several moments before MJ replied, again with his eyes closed. “I know,” he said softly. “We’re putting that together, too.”

“They killed the Secretary of State and the entire delegation on Cyprus. They have no conscience, no allegiance to anything but their own ever-expanding wealth and power.… I want nothing,
we
want nothing!”

“I understand. You wouldn’t get it if you wanted it.”

“That’s why he was chosen, Mitchell. We found the extraordinary man. He’s too perceptive to be fooled and too decent to be bought. In addition, he has the personal requisites to command attention.”

“I can’t fault your choice, Dr. Winters.”

“So where are we?”

“In a dilemma,” said Payton. “But for the moment it’s mine, not yours.”

7:25
P.M.
San Diego. They held each other; Khalehla leaned back, touching his hair as she looked at him. “Darling, can you do it?”

“You forget,
ya anisa
, I’ve spent most of my profitable life dealing with the Arabic propensity for negotiation.”

“That was negotiating—exaggeration, of course—not
lying
, not sustaining a lie in front of people who’ll be suspicious of everything you say.”

“They’ll desperately want to believe me; that’s two points for our side. Besides, once I see them and meet them, I don’t really give a damn what they believe.”

“I wouldn’t advise you to think that way, Evan,” said Rashad, lowering her hand and stepping away. “Until we have them, which includes degrees of traceable evidence, they’ll operate as usual—down and dirty. If they think for a moment that it’s a trap, you could be found washed up on the beach, or maybe just not found at all, just out there somewhere in the Pacific.”

“As in the shark-infested shoals of Qatar.” Kendrick nodded, remembering Bahrain and the Mahdi. “I see what you mean. Then I’ll make it plain that my office knows where I am tonight.”

“It wouldn’t happen tonight, darling. Down and dirty doesn’t mean stupid. There’ll be a mix in there—some legitimate staffers and probably a smattering of Bollinger’s kitchen cabinet. Old friends who act as advisers—they’re the ones you want to zero in on. Use that well-recognized cool of yours and be convincing. Don’t let anything throw you.”

The telephone rang and Evan started toward it. “That’s the limousine,” he said. “Gray with tinted windows, as befits the Vice President’s residence in the hills.”

8:07
P.M.
San Diego. The slender man walked rapidly through the terminal at San Diego’s international airport, a garment two-suiter slung over his right shoulder, a black medical bag in his left hand. The automatic glass doors to the taxi area snapped back as he passed through onto the concrete pavement. He stood for a moment, then headed for the first cab in the line of taxis queued up for passengers. He opened the door as the driver lowered a tabloid newspaper.

“I assume you’re available,” said the new fare curtly as he climbed in, throwing the carryon across the seat and lowering his medical bag to the floor.

“No trips over an hour, mister. That’s when I pack it in for the night.”

“You’ll make it.”

“Where to?”

“Up in the hills. I know the way. I’ll direct you.”

“Gotta have an address, mister. It’s the law.”

“How about the California residence of the Vice President of the United States?” asked the passenger testily.

“It’s an address,” replied the driver, unimpressed.

The taxi started off with a planned mean-spirited jolt, and the man known briefly in southwest Colorado as Dr. Eugene Lyons was slapped back into the seat. He was unaware of the insult, however, his anger clouding all normal perceptions. He was a man who was
owed
, a man who had been cheated!

The introductions were brief and Kendrick had the distinct impression that not all the names or titles were entirely accurate. As a result, he studied each face as if he were about to commit it to a canvas he was incapable of painting. Khalehla had been right, the seven-man council
was
a mix but not as difficult to discern as she thought. A staffer making thirty to forty thousand dollars a year did not dress or behave like someone who spent such sums on a weekend visit to Paris … or Divonne. He judged that the staff was in the minority: three official aides versus four outside advisers—the kitchen cabinet from California.

Vice President Orson Bollinger was a man of medium height, medium build, medium middle age, and afflicted with a medium high voice that fell between the narrow parameters of being dismissable and convincing. He was … well, medium, the ideal second in command as long as Number One was in eminent good health and vigor. He was vaguely perceived as a toady who might just possibly rise to the occasion, but only possibly. He was neither a threat nor a stupid man. He was a political survivor because he understood the unwritten rules of the also-ran. He greeted Congressman Evan Kendrick warmly and led him
into his impressive private library, where his “people” were assembled, sitting in various leather armchairs and dark leather couches.

“We’ve canceled our Christmas festivities here,” said Bollinger, sitting in the most prominent chair and indicating that Evan should sit beside him, “in deference to dear Ardis and Andrew. Such a terrible tragedy, two such magnificently patriotic people. She simply couldn’t live without him, you know. You’d have to have seen them together to understand.”

Nods and impatient grunts of agreement came from around the room. “I understand, Mr. Vice President,” interjected Kendrick sadly. “As you may know, I met Mrs. Vanvlanderen a number of years ago in Saudi Arabia. She was a remarkable woman and so very sensitive.”

“No, Congressman, I
didn’t
know that.”

“It’s immaterial, but of course not to me. I’ll never forget her. She was remarkable.”

“As, indeed, is your request for a meeting this evening,” said one of the two official aides sitting on the couch. “We’re all aware of the Chicago movement to challenge the Vice President, and we understand that it may not have your endorsement. Is that true, Congressman?”

“As I explained to the Vice President this afternoon, I didn’t hear about it until a week ago.… No, it doesn’t have my endorsement. I’ve considered other plans that do not concern further political pursuits.”

“Then why not simply declare your noncandidacy?” asked a second aide from the same couch.

“Well, I guess things are never as simple as we’d like them to be, are they? I’d be less than candid if I said I wasn’t flattered by the proposal, and during the past five days my staff did some fairly extensive polling, both regionally and among the party leadership. They’ve concluded that my candidacy is a viable prospect.”

“But you just said you had other plans,” interrupted a heavy-set man in gray flannels and a gold-buttoned navy blue blazer … not an aide.

“I believe I said that I’ve
considered
other plans, other pursuits. Nothing’s finalized.”

“What’s your point, Congressman?” asked the same staffer who had suggested that Evan declare his noncandidacy.

“That could be between the Vice President and me, couldn’t it?”

“These are my people,” offered Bollinger unctuously, smiling benignly.

“I understand that, sir, but my people are not here … perhaps to guide me.”

“You don’t look or sound like someone who needs a hell of a lot of guidance,” said a short, compact adviser-contributor from a leather chair unflatteringly large for his small frame. “I’ve seen you on television. You’ve got some pretty strong opinions.”

“I couldn’t change those any more than a zebra could change his stripes, but there may be mitigating circumstances why they should remain privately held beliefs rather than publicly expressed ones.”

“Are you trading horses?” asked a third contributor, this a tall, lanky man in an open shirt and deeply tanned features.

“I’m not trading anything,” objected Kendrick firmly. “I’m attempting to explain a situation that hasn’t been clarified and I think it damn well should be.”

“No need to get upset, young fella,” said Bollinger earnestly, frowning at his large suntanned adviser. “It’s not a demeaning choice of words, you know. ‘Trading’ is intrinsic to our great democratic contract. Now, what’s this situation that should be clarified?”

“The Oman crisis.… Masqat and Bahrain. The basic reason why I’ve been singled out for higher political office.” Suddenly it was apparent that the Vice President’s people all thought they were going to be given information that might wash away the Oman myth, vitiate the potential candidate’s strongest appeal. All eyes were riveted on the Congressman. “I went to Masqat,” continued Evan, “because I knew who was behind the Palestinian terrorists. He used the same tactics on me, driving my company out of business and robbing me of
millions
.”

“You wanted revenge, then?” suggested the heavyset adviser in the gold-buttoned blazer.

“Revenge,
hell
, I wanted my company back—I still want it. The time will come fairly soon now and I want to head back to pick up the pieces, to make up for all those profits I left behind.”

The fourth contributor, a florid-faced man with a distinct Boston accent, leaned forward. “You goin’ back t’ the Middle East?”

“No, to the Persian Gulf states—there’s a difference. The Emirates, Bahrain, Qatar, Dubai, they’re not Lebanon or Syria or Qaddafi’s Libya. The word out of Europe is that construction’s
starting up all over again and I intend to be there.”

“You sold your company,” said the tall, suntanned contributor with the open shirt, his speech laconic but precise.

“At a
forced sale
. It was worth five times what I was paid. But that’s not too large a problem for me. Up against West German, French and Japanese capital, I may have a few problems at the beginning, but my contacts are as extensive as anyone else’s. Also …” Kendrick played out his scenario with understated conviction, touching on his relationships with the royal houses and ministers of Oman, Bahrain, Abu Dhabi and Dubai, mentioning the protection and the assistance, including private transportation, provided him by the governments of Oman and Bahrain during the Masqat crisis. Then, as abruptly as he began, he stopped. He had drawn the impending picture sufficiently for their imaginations; more might be too much.

The men in the library looked at one another, and with an almost imperceptible nod from the Vice President, the heavyset man in the navy blue blazer spoke. “It strikes me that your plans are pretty well solidified. What would you want with a job that pays a hundred and fifty thou a year and too many chicken dinners? You’re not a politician.”

“Considering my age, the time factor could be attractive. Five years from now I’ll still be in my forties, and the way I read things, even if I started tomorrow over there it would take me two, perhaps three, years to be in full operation, and I could be shy a year there—there are no guarantees. But if I go the other way and actively seek the nomination, I might actually get it—that’s no reflection on you, Mr. Vice President. It’s merely the result of the media treatment that I’ve been given.”

When several others began speaking at once, Bollinger held up his hand, barely inches above the arm of his chair. It was enough to quiet them. “
And
, Congressman?”

“Well, I think it’s pretty obvious. There’s no question in anyone’s mind that Jennings will win the election, although he may have problems with the Senate. If I were fortunate enough to be on the ticket, I’d go from the House to the vice presidency, spend my time and come out with more international influence—and, quite frankly, resources—than I could ever hope to have otherwise.”

“
That
, Congressman,” cried an angry young third aide from a straight-backed chair next to his colleagues on the couch, “is blatantly using the trust of public office for personal profit!”

There was a mass lowering and straying of the contributors’
eyes. “If I didn’t think you impetuously misspoke yourself because you don’t understand,” said Evan calmly, “I’d be extremely offended. I’m stating an obvious fact because I want to be completely open with Vice President Bollinger, a man I deeply respect. What I mentioned is the truth; it goes with the office. But in
no
way does that truth take away from the energy or the commitment I’d give to that office while serving it and the nation. Whatever rewards might come from such a position, whether in the form of publishing, corporate boardrooms or golf tournaments, they wouldn’t be given to a man who took his responsibilities lightly. Like Vice President Bollinger, I couldn’t operate that way.”

“Well said, Evan,” commented the Vice President softly while looking harshly at the impulsive aide. “You’re owed an apology.”

“I apologize,” said the young man. “You’re right, of course. It all goes with the office.”