The Icarus Agenda (107 page)

Hamendi!
He had raced ahead, oblivious of his associate, determined only to reach the vehicle that would take him to his radar-cleared plane out of South Yemen across hostile borders. He must not
reach
it! The merchant of death could not be allowed to deal in death
anymore
! Evan literally sledgehammered a path through the onslaught of running, screaming figures to the base of the pier. There was a wide ascending stretch of concrete that led up to a dirt road, where a Russian Zia limousine waited, the exhaust fumes indicating that the engine was roaring, waiting for the car’s escaping passengers. Hamendi, his white silk jacket billowing behind him, was within yards of his escape! Kendrick called upon strengths within him that defied the outer regions of his imagination and raced up the concrete incline, his legs about to collapse, and then they did collapse twenty feet from the Zia as Hamendi approached the
door. From his prone position, his weapon barely steadied by both trembling hands, he fired again and again and again.

Abdel Hamendi, the king of the court of international arms merchants, reached for his throat as he fell to the ground.

It was not
over
! screamed a voice in Kendrick’s mind. There was something else to do! He crawled down the concrete incline, reaching into his pocket for a map code Blue had provided everyone in the event of separation and possible escape. He tore off a fragment, taking a small blunt pencil from another pocket, and wrote the following in Arabic:

Hamendi the liar is dead. Soon all the merchants will die, for everywhere the treachery has begun, as you have seen for yourself this day. Everywhere they have been paid by Israel and the Great Satan America to sell us defective weapons. Everywhere. Reach our brothers everywhere and tell them what I have told you and what you have witnessed this day. No weapons from this day on can be trusted. Signed by a silent friend who knows.

Painfully, as though the wounds from the island off Mexico had returned, Evan got to his feet and ran as fast as he could back into the angry, still-shrieking crowds toward the doors of the warehouse. Feigning hysterical pleas to Allah over the death of a brother, he fell prostrate in front of the small group of leaders, which now included those from the Baaka Valley in Lebanon. As hands came down to offer comfort he shoved the paper toward them, rose suddenly to his feet screaming, and raced out of the warehouse doors, disappearing into the now wailing, grieving crowds kneeling beside mutilated corpses everywhere. In panic he heard the bass-toned whistles from the cargo ship—signals of departure! He pummeled his way to the far side of the pier, where he saw Khalehla and Ahmat standing by the gangplank, shouting up to the men on deck, if possible more panicked than himself.

“Where the hell have you
been
!” screamed Rashad, her eyes furious.

“They were lying their way out!” yelled Kendrick as Ahmat shoved both of them onto the gangplank, which, at his signal, began its retreat into the ship.

“Hamendi?” asked Khelehla.

“And Grinell—”

“
Grinell?
” shouted the agent from Cairo as the three of them staggered forward. “Of
course
Grinell,” added Rashad. “Where
else
—”

“You’re a goddamned fool, Congressman!” roared the young
sultan of Oman, still shoving his charges, now onto the deck of the ship, which had already floated away from the pier. “Another thirty seconds and you would have stayed back there. Any minute that crowd could have turned on us, and I couldn’t risk the lives of these men!”

“Christ, you’ve really grown up.”

“We all do our thing when it’s our turn.… What about Hamendi and this whoever-he-is?”

“I killed them.”

“Just like that,” said Ahmat breathlessly, but calmly.

“We all do our thing when it’s our turn, Your Highness.”

Gerald Bryce walked into the computerized study of his house in Georgetown and went directly to his processor. He sat down in front of it and turned on the switch; as the screen lit up he typed in a code. Instantly the green letters responded.

The young, strikingly handsome expert smiled and continued to type.

I have now read all the max confidential printouts reaching the CIA and coded for only M. J. Payton’s modem. In a word, the entire report is incredible and already the effects of the operation are seen. To date, barely two weeks after the events in South Yemen, seven of the most prominent arms merchants have been assassinated, and it is estimated that the flow of weapons to the Middle East has been cut by 60 percent. Our man is invincible. More to the point, however, combined with the previous information we possess, the White House must—repeat must—listen to us in the event we care to have our voice heard. We will, of course, exercise this prerogative with the utmost circumspection, but it is, nevertheless, ours to exercise. For regardless of outcome, positive or negative, national and international laws have been broken, the administration directly and indirectly associated with murder, terrorism, corruption, and, indeed, approached the edge of that all-inclusive condemnation, crimes against humanity. As we agree, there must always be a benevolent, selfless power above the White House to give
it direction, and the means to that power is to know the innermost secrets of any administration. In this regard we are succeeding in ways undreamed of by those who came before us. If there is a God, may He grant that we and our successors be truthful to our beliefs. Penultimately, it strikes me that the sound and the partial cadence of Inver Brass is not far distant from a medical term: intravenous. It’s quite appropriate, I believe. Finally, I am working on several other projects and will keep you informed.

In a boat off Glorious Cay in the Bahamas a large black man sat in the opulent cabin of his Bertram yacht studying the computer screen in front of him. He smiled at the words he read. Inver Brass was in good hands, young capable hands, immense intelligence coupled with decency and a desire for excellence. Gideon Logan, who had spent much of his wealthy adult life for the betterment of his people—even to the point of disappearing for three years as the silent, unseen ombudsman of Rhodesia during its transition to Zimbabwe—felt the relief that came with principled, outstanding succession. Time was winding down for him as it was for Margaret Lowell and old Jacob Mandel. Mortality mandated that they would be replaced; and this young man, this attractive honorable young genius, would choose their successors. The nation and the world would be better for them.

Time was winding down.

Gerald Bryce sipped his glass of Madeira and returned to his equipment. He was elated for many reasons, not the least of which was what he termed their “fraternity of brilliance.” What was so extraordinary was the ordinariness of its inevitability. Their brotherhood was preordained, inescapable, its origins found in the most common of occurrences: the coming together of people with similar interests, the advanced regions of those interests demanding superior intellects—and, to be realistic, little patience with a society governed by mediocrity. One thing always led to another, always obliquely, but nevertheless inevitably.

When time permitted, Bryce lectured and held seminars, a sought-after leader in the field of computer science who was careful not to publicly explore the outer limits of his expertise. But every now and then there was that extraordinary person who grasped where he was heading. In London, Stockholm, Paris, Los Angeles and Chicago—the University of Chicago.
Those few people were scrutinized beyond anything their imaginations could conceive of and, to date, four had been reached again—and again. A new Inver Brass was a faint but definite outline on the horizon. The most extraordinary of those four would be reached now.

Bryce entered his code, punched the keys for
Addendum
, and read the letters on the screen.

Satellite transmission. Mod-Sahalhuddin. Bahrain. Proceed.

Emmanuel Weingrass confounded the medical specialists, especially those at the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta. Not that he was recovering, for he was not, and there was no change in the terminal status of the virus infection. However, he was not getting evidently much worse; his rate of decline was far slower than had been anticipated. The doctors would not by any means pronounce the disease arrested; they were simply confused. As the pathologist in Denver phrased it, “Let’s say on a scale of one to minus ten—minus ten being check-out time—the old guy’s hovering around minus six and won’t move down.”

“But the virus is still there,” said Kendrick as he and Khalehla walked with the doctor on the grounds of the Colorado house out of Manny’s earshot.

“It’s rampant. It’s just not incapacitating him to the degree that it should.”

“It’s probably the cigarettes he cons and all the whisky he steals,” stated Rashad.

“He
doesn’t
,” said the pathologist, surprised and even more bewildered.

Evan and Khalehla nodded their heads in resigned confirmation. “He’s a bellicose survivor,” explained Kendrick, “with more wisdom and larceny in his head than anyone I’ve ever met. Also, since the prognosis was severe in terms of time, we haven’t exactly kept our eyes wide open every minute we’ve been around him.”

“Please understand, Congressman, I don’t want to give you any false hope. He’s a terribly ill eighty-six-year-old man—”

“Eighty-
six
?” exclaimed Evan.

“Didn’t you know?”

“No. He said he was
eighty-one
!”

“I’m sure he believes it, or at least has convinced himself. He’s the sort who when they turn sixty, the next birthday’s fifty-five. Nothing wrong with that at all, by the way, but we wanted a complete medical history, so we went back to his days in New York City. Did you know he had three wives by the time he was thirty-two?”

“I’m sure they’re still looking for him.”

“Oh, no, they’ve all passed away. Atlanta wanted their histories, too—possible latent sexually related complications, that sort of thing.”

“Did they check Los Angeles, Paris, Rome, Tel Aviv, Riyadh, and all of the Emirates?” asked Khalehla dryly.

“
Remarkable
,” said the pathologist softly, but with emphasis, a medical mind apparently pondering, perhaps envying. “Well, I should be leaving, I’m due back in Denver by noon. And, Congressman, thank you for the private jet. It saved me a great deal of time.”

“I couldn’t do anything less, Doctor. I appreciate everything you’re doing, everything you’ve done.”

The pathologist paused, looking at Evan. “I just said ‘Congressman,’ Mr. Kendrick. Perhaps I should say ‘Mr. Vice President,’ as I and, indeed, most of the country believe you should be. In truth, if you’re not in the running, I don’t intend to vote, and I can tell you I speak for the majority of my friends and associates.”

“That’s not a viable position, Doctor. Besides, the issue hasn’t been resolved.… Come on, I’ll walk you to the car. Khalehla, check on our sybaritic adolescent and make sure he’s not taking a bath in sour mash, will you?”

“If he is, do you think
I’m
going to walk in there?… Sure, I will.” Rashad shook hands with the pathologist from Denver. “Thank you for everything,” she said.

“I’ll know you mean it if you convince this young man he really must be our next Vice President.”

“I repeat,” said Kendrick, leading the physician across the lawn to the circular drive. “That issue is far from resolved, Doctor.”

“The issue
should
be resolved!” shouted Emmanuel Weingrass from his recliner on the enclosed porch, the Congressman and
Khalehla sitting in their accustomed positions on the couch so that the old architect could glower at them. “What do you think? It’s all
finished
? So Bollinger and his fascist thieves are out and there’s no one to take their
places
? You’re that
stupid
?”

“Cut it out, Manny,” said Evan. “There are too many areas where Langford Jennings and I differ for a President to be comfortable with someone like me who might possibly succeed him—and the thought of
that
scares the hell out of me.”

“Lang knows all that!” cried Weingrass.

“
Lang?
”

The architect shrugged. “Well, you’ll learn soon enough—”

“Learn
what
soon enough?”

“Jennings kind of invited himself out to lunch here a few weeks ago, when you and my lovely daughter were winding things up in Washington.… So what could I do? Tell the President of the United States he couldn’t nosh a little?”

“Oh, shit!” said Kendrick.

“Hold it, darling,” interrupted Khalehla. “I’m fascinated, really
fascinated
.”

“Go
on
, Manny!” yelled Evan.

“Well, we discussed many things—he’s not an intellectual, I grant you, but he has smarts and he understands the larger picture, that’s what he’s good at, you know.”

“I
don’t
know, and how
dare
you intercede for me?”

“Because I’m your
father
, you ungrateful idiot. The only father you’ve ever
known
! Without me you’d still be hustling a few buildings with the Saudis and wondering if you could cover your costs. Don’t talk about my daring—you were lucky I dared—talk about your obligations to others.… All right, all right, we couldn’t have done what we did without your balls, without your strength, but I was
there
, so listen to me.”

In exasperation, Kendrick closed his eyes and leaned back on the couch. Suddenly, Khalehla realized that Weingrass was unobtrusively signaling her, his lips in exaggerated movement; the silent words were easily read.
It’s an act. I know what I’m doing
. She could only respond by looking at the old man, bewildered. “Okay, Manny,” said Evan, opening his eyes and staring at the ceiling. “You can cut it out. I’m listening.”

“That’s better.” Weingrass winked at the agent from Cairo and continued. “You can walk away and nobody’s got the right to say or think a bad word because you’re owed, and you don’t owe anybody anything. But I know you, my friend, and the man I know has a streak of outrage in him that he keeps running
away from yet never can because it’s part of him. In short words, you don’t happen to like rotten people—present older company excepted—and it’s a good thing for this meshugenah world that guys like you are around; there are too many of the other type.… Still, I see a problem, and to put it in an eggshell, it’s that not too many of your kind can do a hell of a lot because no one listens to them. Why should anyone? Who
are
they? Troublemakers? Whistle-blowers? Insignificant agitators?… They’re easily disposed of, anyway. Jobs are lost, promotions withheld, and if they’re really serious they wind up in the courts where their whole lives are soiled—dirt dug up on them that’s got nothing to do with what they’re there for by expensive lawyers who’ve got more tricks than Houdini—and if all they end up with is a Chapter Eleven and usually no wife and kids, maybe it could be worse. Maybe they could be found under a truck or down in the tracks of a subway at an inappropriate time.… Now, you, on the other hand, everybody listens to you—look at the polls; you’re the top cardinal of the country, granting the fact that Langford Jennings is Pope—and there’s not a shyster in or out of sight who’d take you on in the courts, much less the Congress. As I see it, you’ve got the chance to speak from the top for a hell of a lot of people down below who can’t get a hearing. Lang will bring you in on everything—”