The Icarus Agenda (103 page)

Across the world, pockets of mist drifted in from the Persian Gulf, blanketing Bahrain’s Tujjar Road, causing inverted halos beneath the street-lamps and obscuring the night sky above. It was precisely four-thirty in the morning as a black limousine intruded upon this deserted waterfront section of the sleeping city. It came to a stop in front of the glass doors of the building
known as the Sahalhuddin, until sixteen months ago the princely high chambers of the man-monster who called himself the Mahdi. Two robed Arabs emerged from rear doors of the imposing vehicle and walked into the wash of dull neon lights that illuminated the entrance; the limousine quietly drove away. The taller man tapped softly on the glass; inside, the guard at the reception desk glanced at his wristwatch, got out of his chair and walked rapidly to the door. He unlocked it and bowed to the odd-hour visitors.

“All is prepared, great sirs,” he said, his voice at first barely above a whisper. “The outside guards have been granted early dismissal; the morning shift arrives at six o’clock.”

“We’ll need less than half that time,” said the younger, shorter visitor, obviously the leader. “Has your well-paid preparedness included an unlocked door upstairs?”

“Most assuredly, great sir.”

“And only one elevator is in use?” asked the older, taller Arab.

“Yes, sir.”

“We’ll lock it above.” The shorter man started toward the bank of elevators on the right, his companion instantly catching up with him. “If I’m correct,” he continued, speaking loudly, “we walk up the final flight of stairs, is that so?”

“Yes, great sir. All the alarms have been disengaged and the room restored exactly as it was … before that terrible morning. Also, as instructed, the item you requested has been brought up; it was in the cellars. You may be aware, sir, that the authorities tore the room apart, then sealed it for many months. We could not understand, great sir.”

“It wasn’t necessary that you did.… You will alert us if anyone seeks entrance into the building or even approaches the doors.”

“With the eyes of a hawk, great sir!”

“Try the telephone, please.” The two men reached the elevators and the taller subordinate pressed the button; a panel opened immediately. They walked inside and the door closed. “Is that man competent?” asked the shorter Arab as the machinery whirred and the elevator began its ascent.

“He does what he is told to do and what he has been told is not complicated.… Why was the Mahdi’s office sealed for so many months?”

“Because the authorities were looking for men like us, waiting for men like us.”

“They tore the room apart …?” said the subordinate hesitantly, questioningly.

“As with us, they did not know where to look.” The elevator slowed down, then stopped and the panel opened. With quickening steps the two visitors walked to the staircase that led to the Mahdi’s floor and former “temple.” They reached the office door and the shorter man stopped, his hand on the knob. “I’ve waited over a year for this moment,” he said, breathing deeply. “Now that it’s arrived, I’m trembling.”

Inside the huge, strange mosquelike room with its high domed ceiling filled with brilliantly colored mosaic tiles, the two intruders stood in silence, as if in the presence of some awesome spirit. The sparse furniture of dark burnished wood was in place like ancient statues of ferocious soldiers guarding the inner tomb of a great pharaoh; the outsized desk was symbolic of the sarcophagus of a dead revered ruler. And standing against the far right wall, in clashing contradiction, was a modern metal scaffold rising to a height of eight feet, side bars permitting access to the top. The taller Arab spoke.

“This could be Allah’s resting place—may His will be done.”

“You didn’t know the Mahdi, my innocent friend, on both counts,” replied the associate’s superior. “Try the Phrygian Midas.… Quickly now, we waste time. Move the scaffold to where I tell you, then climb above.” The subordinate walked rapidly to the raised platform and looked back at his companion. “To the left,” continued the leader. “Just beyond the second slit of the window.”

“I don’t understand you,” said the tall man, stepping on the slip clamps and climbing to the top of the scaffold.

“There are many things you don’t understand and there’s no reason why you should.… Now, count to the left, six tiles from the window seam, and then five above.”

“Yes,
yes
 … it is a stretch for me and I am not short.”

“The Mahdi was far taller, far more impressive—but not without his faults.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“No matter.… Press the four corners of the tile at the very edges, then force the palm of your hand with all your strength into the center.
Now!
”

The mosaic tile literally burst from its recess; it was all the tall Arab could do to hold on to it without falling. “Beloved
Allah
!” he exclaimed.

“Simple suction balanced by weights,” said the shorter man
below without elaboration. “Now reach inside and withdraw the papers; they should all be together.” The subordinate did as he was told, pulling out layered sheets of an extensive computer printout held together by two rubber bands. “Drop them to me,” continued the leader, “and replace the tile exactly as you removed it, starting first with pressure in the center.”

The tall Arab awkwardly carried out his orders, then climbed down the scaffold’s crossbars onto the floor. He approached his superior, who had unfolded several sheets of the printout and was scanning them intensely. “This was the treasure you spoke of?” he asked softly.

“From the Persian Gulf to the western shores of the Mediterranean, there is no greater,” answered the younger man, his eyes racing across the papers. “They executed the Mahdi, but they could not destroy what he created. Retreat was necessary, retrenchment demanded—but not dismemberment. The myriad branches of the enterprise were neither crushed nor even exposed. They merely fell away and returned to the earth, ready to sprout trunks of their own one day.”

“Those odd-looking pages tell you that?” The superior nodded, still reading. “What in Allah’s name do they say?”

The shorter man looked curiously up at his taller companion. “Why not?” he said, smiling. “These are the lists of every man, every woman, every firm, company and corporation, every contact and conduit to the terrorists ever reached by the Mahdi. It will take months, perhaps several years, to put everything back together again, but it will be done. You see, they’re waiting. For ultimately the Mahdi was right: this is
our
world. We will surrender it to no one.”

“The word will
spread
, my friend!” cried the older, taller subordinate. “It will, will it
not
?”

“Very carefully,” replied the young leader. “We live in different times,” he added enigmatically. “Last week’s equipment is obsolete.”

“I cannot pretend to understand you.”

“Again it’s not necessary.”

“Where do you
come
from?” asked the bewildered subordinate. “We are told to obey you, that you know things that men like me are not privileged to know. But
how
, from
where
?”

“From thousands of miles away, preparing for years for this moment.… Leave me now. Quickly. Go downstairs and tell the guard to have the scaffold removed to the cellars, then flag the
car as it circles the street. The driver will take you home; we’ll meet tomorrow. Same time, same place.”

“May Allah and the Mahdi be with you,” said the tall Arab, bowing and rushing out the door, closing it behind him.

The young man watched his companion leave, then reached under his robes and pulled out a small hand-held radio. He pressed a button and spoke. “He’ll be outside in two or three minutes. Pick him up and drive to the rocks of the south coast. Kill him, strip him, and throw the gun into the sea.”

“So ordered,” replied the limousine’s driver several streets away.

The youthful leader replaced the radio inside his robes and crossed solemnly toward the huge ebony desk. He removed his ghotra, dropping it on the floor as he walked to the thronelike chair and sat down. He opened a tall wide drawer on his lower left and lifted out the jewel-encrusted headdress of the Mahdi. He placed it on his head and spoke softly to the mosaic ceiling.

“I thank you, my Father,” said the inheritor with a doctorate in computer sciences from the University of Chicago. “To be chosen among all your sons is both an honor and a challenge. My weak white mother will never understand, but as you incessantly made clear to me, she was merely a vessel.… However, I must tell you, Father, that things are different now. Subtlety and long-range objectives are the order of the times. We will employ your methods where they are called for—killing is no problem for us—but it is a far larger part of the globe that we seek than you ever sought. We will have cells in all of Europe and the Mediterranean, and we will communicate in ways you never thought of—secretly, by satellite, interception impossible. You see, my Father, the world no longer belongs to one race or another. It belongs to the young and the strong and the brilliant, and we are they.”

The new Mahdi stopped whispering and lowered his eyes to the top of the desk. Soon what he needed would be there. The greater son of the great Mahdi would continue the march.

We must
control
.

Everywhere
!

BOOK THREE
 

It was the thirty-second day since the wild departure from the island of Passage to China, and Emmanuel Weingrass walked slowly into the enclosed veranda in Mesa Verde; his words, however, were rushed. “Where’s the bum?” he asked.

“Jogging in the south forty,” replied Khalehla on the couch, having her morning coffee and reading the newspaper. “Or up in the mountains by now, who knows?”

“It’s two o’clock in the afternoon in Jerusalem,” said Manny.

“And four o’clock in Masqat,” added Rashad. “They’re all so clever over there.”

“My daughter, the smart-mouth.”

“Sit down, child,” said Khalehla, patting the cushion beside her.

“Smarter-mouth infant,” mumbled Weingrass, walking over and removing his short cylinder of oxygen to lower himself to the couch. “The bum looks good,” continued Manny, leaning back and breathing heavily.

“You’d think he was training for the Olympics.”

“Speaking of which, you got a cigarette?”

“You’re not supposed to have one.”

“So give.”

“You’re impossible.” Khalehla reached into her bathrobe pocket, withdrew a pack of cigarettes and shook one up while reaching for a ceramic lighter on the coffee table. She lit Weingrass’s cigarette and repeated, “You
are
impossible.”

“And you’re my Arab Mother Superior,” said Manny, inhaling as though he were a child wallowing in a forbidden third dessert. “How are things in Oman?”

“My old friend the sultan is a little confused, but my younger friend his wife will straighten him out.… Incidentally, Ahmat sends you his best.”

“He should. He owes me for his grades at Harvard, and he never paid me for the broads I got him in Los Angeles.”

“Somehow you always get to the heart of things.… How is everyone in Jerusalem?”

“Speaking of sending regards, Ben-Ami sends you his.”

“
Benny?
” cried Rashad, sitting forward. “Good Lord, I haven’t thought of him in years! Does he still wear those silly designer blue jeans and strap his weapon back over his tail?”

“He probably always will and charge the Mossad double for both.”

“He’s a good guy and one of the best control agents Israel’s ever had. We worked together in Damascus; he’s small and a little cynical, but a good man to have on your side. Tough as nails, actually.”

“As your bum would say, ‘Tell me about it.’ We were closing in on the hotel in Bahrain and all he did was give me lectures over the radio.”

“He’ll join us in Masqat?”

“He’ll join
you
, you not-very-nice person who has shut me out.”

“Come on, Manny—”

“I know, I know. I’m a burden.”

“What do
you
think?”

“All right, I’m a burden, but even burdens are kept informed.”

“At least twice a day. Where’s Ben-Ami going to meet us? And how? I can’t imagine that the Mossad wants any part of this.”

“After the Iranian mess the moon’s too close, especially with CIA input and banks in Switzerland. Ben will leave a telephone number at the palace switchboard for a Miss Adrienne—my idea.… Also, someone’s coming with him.”

“Who?”

“A lunatic.”

“That helps. Does he have a name?”

“Only one I knew was code Blue.”

“
Azra!
”

“No, that was the other one.”

“I know, but the Israeli killed Azra the Arabic Blue. Evan told me it sickened him, two kids with such hatred.”

“With the kids it’s all sickening. Instead of baseball bats, they carry repeating rifles and grenades.… Has Payton straightened out your transportation?”

“He worked it out with us yesterday. Air Force cargo to Frankfurt and on to Cairo, where we go under cover in small craft to Kuwait and Dubai, with the last leg by helicopter. We’ll reach Oman at night, landing in the Jabal Sham, where one of Ahmat’s unmarked cars will meet us and drive us to the palace.”