The Icarus Agenda (28 page)

Emmanuel Weingrass
, mused Evan, his eyes beginning to close, the dead weight of sleep descending. Yet he could not
prevent it; a quiet laugh echoed in his throat. He remembered their first trip to Bahrain.

“
Now for Christ’s sake, bear in mind that we’re dealing with a people who run an archipelago, not a landmass bordering another landmass that both sides conveniently call a country. This is a sheikhdom consisting of over thirty goddamned islands in the Persian Gulf. It’s nothing you’re going to measure in acreage, and they never want you to—that’s their strength
.”

“
What are you driving at, Manny?
”

“
Try to understand me, you unread mechanic. You appeal to that sense of strength. This is an independent state, a collection of eruptions from the sea that protects the ports from the storms of the Gulf and is conveniently situated between the Qatar peninsula and the Hasa coast of Saudi Arabia, the latter extremely important because of the Saudi leverage
.”

“
What the hell has that got to do with a lousy island golf course? Do you play golf, Manny? I never could afford it
.”

“
Chasing a little white ball over a hundred acres of grass while the arthritis is killing you and your heart is blowing apart in frustration has never been my idea of a civilized pursuit. However, I know what we put into this lousy golf course
.”

“
What?
”

“
Remembrances of things past. Because it’s a constant reminder of their present, a reminder to everyone. Their strength
.”

“
Will you come down from orbit, please?
”

“
Read the historical chronicles of Assyria, Persia, the Greeks and the Romans. Take a peek through the early drawings of the Portuguese cartographers and the logs of Vasco da Gama. At one time or another all of these people fought for control of the archipelago—the portugués held it for a hundred years—why?
”

“
I’m sure you’ll tell me
.”

“
Because of its geographical location in the Gulf, its strategic importance. For centuries it’s been a coveted center for trade and the financial repositories of trade
—”

The much younger Evan Kendrick had sat up at that moment, now understanding what the eccentric architect was driving at. “That’s what’s happening now,” he had interrupted, “by leaps and bounds, money pouring in from all over the world
.”

“
As an independent state without fear of being conquered in today’s world,” clarified Weingrass. “Bahrain services allies and enemies alike. So our magnificent clubhouse on this lousy golf course will reflect its history. We’ll do it with murals. A businessman looks up at the paintings above the bar and sees all these
things pictured and thinks, Jesus, this is some place! Everybody wanted it! Look at the money they spent! He’s now even more anxious to operate here. It’s common knowledge that deals are made on golf courses, you young illiterate. Why do you think they want to build one?
”

After they had built the somewhat grotesque clubhouse on the second-rate golf course, the Kendrick Group contracted for three banks and two government buildings. And Manny Weingrass was personally pardoned by one of the highest ministers for disturbing the peace at a café on the Al Zubara Road.

The drone of the jet bored into Evan’s brain. His eyes were closed.

“I object to this subsidiary operation and I want the record to show it,” said Yaakov, code name Blue, of the Masada Brigade, as the seven men climbed into the jet at the far east end of Masqat’s airfield. Emmanuel Weingrass immediately joined the pilot, strapping himself into the adjacent seat, coughing quietly, deeply, as he secured the belt. The Mossad officer had remained behind; he had work to do in Oman; his pistol was in the possession of the slender Ben-Ami, who kept it unholstered until the five-man unit had taken their seats in the aircraft.

“The record will show it, my friend,” replied Ben-Ami as the plane sped down the runway. “Please try to understand that there are things we cannot be told for the good of all of us. We are the activists, the soldiers—and those who make the decisions are the high command. They do their job and we do ours, which is to follow orders.”

“Then I must object to a loathsome parallel,” said the unit member, code name Gray. “ ‘Following orders’ is not a phrase I find very palatable.”

“I remind you, Mr. Ben-Ami,” added code Orange. “For the past three weeks we’ve trained for a single assignment, one we all believe we can accomplish despite profound doubts back home. We’re ready; we’re primed for it, and suddenly it’s aborted without explanation and we’re on our way to Bahrain hunting a man we don’t know with a plan we’ve never seen.”

“If there
is
a plan,” said code Black. “And not simply a debt owed by the Mossad to a disagreeable old man who wants to find an
American
, a Gentile ‘son’ that isn’t his.”

Weingrass turned around; the plane was climbing rapidly, the engines partially muted by the swift ascent. “Listen to me,
pea-heads
!” he shouted. “If that
American
has gone to Bahrain with
a demented Arab terrorist, it means he’s got a damn good reason. It probably hasn’t occurred to you musclebound, intellectual crap shooters, but Masqat wasn’t planned by those subhuman yo-yos playing with guns. The brains, if you’ll pardon an obscure reference, are in Bahrain, and that’s what he’s after,
who
he’s after!”

“Your explanation, if true,” said code White, “does not include a plan, Mr. Weingrass. Or do we shoot craps over that issue?”

“The odds may be worse, smart-ass, but no, we don’t. Once we’ve landed and set up shop, I’ll be calling Masqat every fifteen minutes until we have the information we need.
Then
we have a plan.”

“
How?
” asked Blue angrily, suspiciously.

“We make it up, hothead.”

The huge Englishman stood in rigid disbelief as the terrorist Azra started walking away with the Bahrainian official. The quiet man in uniform had met the Rockwell jet beyond the last maintenance hangar at the airport in Muharraq. “
Wait
,” shouted MacDonald, glancing wildly at Evan Kendrick standing beside him. “
Stop!
You can’t leave me with this man. I
told
you, he’s not who he says he is! He’s not one of us!”

“No, he’s not,” agreed the Palestinian, stopping and looking over his shoulder. “He’s from East Berlin and he saved my life. If you’re telling the truth, I assure you he’ll save yours.”

“You
can’t
—”

“I must,” broke in Azra, turning to the official and nodding.

The Bahrainian, without comment either in his words or in his expression, addressed Kendrick: “As you can see, my associate is coming out of the hangar. He will escort you through another exit. Welcome to our country.”

“
Azra!
” screamed MacDonald, his voice drowned out by the roar of jet engines.

“Easy, Tony,” said Evan as the second Bahrainian official approached them. “We’re entering illegally and you could get us shot.”

“
You!
I
knew
it was you! You
are
Kendrick!”

“Of course I am, and if any of our people here in Bahrain knew you used my name, your lovely, besotted Cecilia—it
is
Cecilia, isn’t it?—would be a widow before she could ask for another drink.”

“By Christ, I don’t
believe
it. You sold your firm and went
back to America! I was told you’d become a politician of sorts!”

“With the Mahdi’s help I might even become President.”

“Oh, my
God
!”

“Smile, Tony. This man doesn’t like what he’s doing and I wouldn’t want him to think we’re ungrateful.
Smile
, you fat son of a bitch!”

Khalehla, in tan slacks, a flight jacket and a visored officer’s cap, stood by the tail of the Harrier jet watching the proceedings a hundred feet away. The young Palestinian killer called Blue had been ushered out; the American congressman and the incredible MacDonald were leaving with another uniformed man, who conveyed them through a maze of cargo alleyways that eluded immigration. This Kendrick, this apparent conformist with some terrible cause, was better than she thought. Not only had he survived the horrors of the embassy—something she believed impossible nine hours ago and over which she had panicked—but he had now separated terrorist from terrorists’ agent.
What was on his mind? What was he doing?

“Hurry up!” she called to the pilot, who was talking to a mechanic by the starboard wing. “Let’s go!”

The pilot nodded, briefly throwing his arms up in despair, and the two of them headed toward the exit reserved for precleared flight personnel. Ahmat, the youthful sultan of Oman, had pushed all the buttons at his considerable command in Masqat. The three passengers on the jet were to be led to a stretch of the airport’s lower-level concourse far behind the main terminal’s taxi line where temporary taxi signs had been mounted on the pavement, each cab driven by a member of the Bahrainian secret police. None had been given any information, only a single order: Report the destination of each passenger.

Khalehla and the pilot said their brief good-byes and both went their separate ways, he to the Flight Control Center for his return-to-Masqat instructions, she to the designated area of the concourse where she would pick up the American and follow him. It would call for all the skill she had to stay out of sight while she followed Kendrick and MacDonald. Tony would spot her in an instant, and the obviously alert American might look twice and remember a dark, filthy street in the el Shari el Mishkwiyis and a woman who held a gun in her hand. The fact that it had not been pointed at him but, instead, at four people in that street of garbage who had tried to rob her or worse would not be readily believed by a man living on the edge of very real peril.
Purpose and paranoia converged in those infinite reaches of a mind under severe stress. He was armed, and one exploding image could trigger a violent response. Khalehla did not fear for her life; eight years of training, including four years in the violent Middle East, had taught her to anticipate, to kill before she was killed. What saddened her was that this decent man should not have to die for what he was doing but it was entirely possible that she could be his executioner. It was growing more possible by the minute.

She reached the area before the passengers from the Oman jet. The traffic on the
Arrivals
level was horrendous: limousines with tinted-glass windows; taxis; ordinary, nondescript cars; pickup trucks of all descriptions. The noise and the fumes were over-powering, the cacophony deafening, under the low concrete ceiling. Khalehla found a shadowed enclave between two cargo bins and waited.

The first to emerge was the terrorist called Azra, accompanied by a uniformed official. The latter flagged a taxi, which sped up to the coarsely dressed young man at the curb. He stepped inside and read from a piece of paper in his hand, giving the driver instructions.

Several minutes later the strange American and the unbelievable Anthony MacDonald walked out on the pavement. Something was
wrong
! thought Khalehla instantly, without really thinking, merely observing. Tony was behaving like his once and former Cairo self! There was agitation in every movement of his huge body, wasted energy craving attention, his eyes bulging, his constantly changing facial expressions those of a drunk pleading for respect—all in contradiction to the superb control necessary to a deep-cover operator with a network of informers in a world-class volatile situation. It was all
wrong
!

And then it happened! As the taxi sped up to the curb, MacDonald suddenly rammed his enormous torso against the American, sending him out into the covered street in front of the rushing cab. Kendrick bounced off the hood, his body flung in midair into the racing traffic of the tunnellike concourse. Brakes screeched, whistles blew, and the congressman from the Ninth District of Colorado was impaled, curved around the shattered windshield of a small Japanese sedan.
Good God, he’s dead!
thought Khalehla, running out on the pavement. And then he moved—both arms
moved
as the American tried to push himself up, collapsing as he did so.

Khalehla raced to the car, surging through a knot of police
and Bahrain’s secret police who had converged on the scene, rupturing one immovable man’s spleen with a vicious, accurate fist. She threw her body over the spastically moving Kendrick while removing the gun from her flight jacket. She spoke to the nearest uniformed man, the weapon angled at his head.

“My name is Khalehla and that’s all you have to know. This man is my property and he goes with me. Pass the word and get us out of here or I’ll kill you.”

The figure raced into the sterile room so agitated that he slammed the door behind him, nearly tripping in the darkness on his way to his equipment. Hands trembling, he brought his appliance to life.

Something’s happened! Breakthrough or breakdown, the hunter or the hunted. The last report speaks of Bahrain but without specifics, only that the subject was in a state of extreme anxiety demanding to be flown there immediately. Of course, that assumes he either escaped from the embassy, was taken out by subterfuge, or never went inside at all. But why Bahrain? Everything is too incomplete, as if the subject’s shadow was obscuring events for his own reasons—a not unlikely possibility, considering everything that’s happened during the past few years and the subpoena powers of Congress and various special prosecutors.

What has happened? What’s happening now? My appliances scream for information, but I can’t give them anything! To factor in a name without specific reference only spews forth encyclopedic historical data long since inserted—and updated—by photoscam. Sometimes I think my own talents defeat me, for I see beyond factors and equations and find visions.