The Icarus Agenda (45 page)

To a degree he had to admit that he did, but not because of any territorial claim. He had walked into a minor political arena an angry man with his eyes open. Could he simply close up shop and take-a-hike because he was irritated over a brief flurry of public exposure? He did not wear a badge of morality on his lapel, but there was something inherently distasteful to him about someone who gave a commitment and walked away from it because of personal inconvenience. On the other hand, in the words of another era, he had thrown out the rascals who had been taking the Colorado’s Ninth District to the cleaners. He had done what he wanted to do. What more could the voters of his constituency want from him? He had awakened them; at least he thought he had and had spared neither words nor money in trying to do so.

Think. He really had to think. He would probably keep the Colorado property for some future time as yet unconsidered; he
was forty-one; in nineteen years he would be sixty. What the hell did
that
matter?… It did matter. He was heading back to Southwest Asia, to the jobs and the people he knew best how to work with, but, like Manny, he was not going to live out his last years, or with luck a decade or two, in those same surroundings.… Manny. Emmanuel Weingrass, genius, brilliance personified, autocrat, renegade, totally impossible human being—yet the only father he had ever known. He never really knew his own father; that faraway man had died building a bridge in Nepal when he was barely eight years old, leaving a humorously cynical wife who claimed that having married an outrageously young captain in the Army Corps of Engineers during the Second World War, she had fewer episodes of connubial bliss than Catherine of Aragon.

“
Hey!
” yelled a rotund man who had just walked out of the small canopied door of a bar on Sixteenth Street. “I just seen you! You were on TV sittin’ on a desk! It was that all-day news program.
Boring!
I don’t know what the hell you said but some bums clapped and some other bums gave you raspberries. It was
you
!”

“You must be mistaken,” said Kendrick, hurrying down the pavement. Good Lord, he thought, the Cable News people had rushed to air the impromptu press conference in short order. He had left his office barely an hour and a half ago; someone was in a hurry. He knew that Cable needed constant fill, but with all the news floating around Washington, why
him
? In truth, what bothered him was an observation made by young Tobias during Evan’s early days on the Hill. “Cable’s an incubating process, Congressman, and we can capitalize on it. The networks may not consider you important enough to cover, but they scan Cable’s snippets all the time for what’s offbeat, the unusual—their own fill. We can create situations where the C-boys will take the bait, and in my opinion, Mr. Kendrick, your looks and your somewhat oblique observations—”

“Then let’s never make the mistake, Mr. Tobias, of ever calling the C-boys, okay?” The interruption had deflated the aide, who was only partially mollified by Evan’s promise that the next inhabitant of his office would be far more cooperative. He had meant it; he meant it now, but he worried that it might be too late.

He headed back to the Madison Hotel, only a block or so away, where he had spent Sunday night—spent it there because he had had the presence of mind to call his house in Virginia to
learn if his appearance on the Foxley show had created any interruptions at home.

“Only if one wishes to make a telephone call, Evan,” Dr. Sabri Hassan had replied in Arabic, the language they both spoke for convenience as well as for other reasons. “It never stops ringing.”

“Then I’ll stay in town. I don’t know where yet, but I’ll let you know.”

“Why bother?” Sabri had asked. “You probably won’t be able to get through anyway. I’m surprised that you did now.”

“Well, in case Manny calls—”

“Why not call him yourself and tell him where you are so I will not have to lie. The journalists in this city cannot wait for an Arab to lie; they pounce upon us. The Israelis can say that white is black, or sweet is sour, and their lobby convinces Congress it’s for your own good. It is not so with us.”

“Cut it out, Sabri—”

“We must leave you, Evan. We’re no good to you, we
will
be no good to you.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Kashi and I watched the program this morning. You were most effective, my friend.”

“We’ll talk about it later.” He had spent the afternoon watching baseball and drinking whisky. At six-thirty he had turned on the news, one network after another, only to see himself in brief segments from the Foxley show. In disgust, he had switched to an arts channel that showed a film depicting the mating habits of whales off the coast of Tierra del Fuego. He was amazed; he fell asleep.

Today, instinct told him to keep his room key, so he rushed through the Madison’s lobby to the elevators. Once inside the room he removed his clothes down to his shorts and lay on the bed. And whether it was a symptom of a repressed ego or sheer curiosity, he turned on the remote control unit and switched the channel to Cable News. Seven minutes later he saw himself walking out of his office.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you have just seen one of the most unusual press conferences this reporter has ever attended. Not only unusual, but unusually one-sided. This first-term representative from Colorado has raised issues of obvious national importance but refuses to be questioned as to his conclusions. He simply walks away. On his behalf it should be said that he denies ‘grandstanding’ because he apparently is not sure he intends to remain
in Washington—which we assume means government. Nevertheless, his statements were provocative, to say the least
.”

The videotape suddenly stopped, replaced by the live face of an anchorwoman. “We switch now to the Department of Defense, where we understand that an under secretary in charge of Strategic Deterence has a prepared statement. It’s yours, Steve.”

Another face, this a dark-haired, blivet-featured reporter with too many teeth who peered into a camera and whispered. “Under Secretary Jasper Hefflefinger, who manages to be hauled out whenever someone attacks the Pentagon, has rushed into the breach opened by Congressman—
who?
—Henryk, of Wyoming—
what?
—Colorado! Here is Under Secretary Hefflefinger.”

Another face. A jowled but handsome man, a strong face with a shock of silver hair that demanded attention. And with a voice that would be envied by the most prominent radio announcers of the late thirties and forties. “I
say
to the congressman that we
welcome
his comments. We want the same
thing
, sir! The avoidance of catastrophe, the pursuit of liberty and freedom—”

The asshole went on and on saying everything but also saying nothing, never once addressing the issues of escalation and containment.

Why
me?
shouted Kendrick to himself.
Why me?
To
hell
with it! With
everything!
He shut off the television set, reached for the phone and called Colorado. “Hi, Manny,” he said, hearing Weingrass’s abrupt hello.

“
Boy
, are you
something
!” yelled the old man into the phone. “I brought you up right, after all!”

“Stow it, Manny, I want out of this shit.”

“You want
what
? Did you see yourself on
TV
?”

“That’s why I want out. Forget the glassed-in steam bath and the gazebo down by the streams. We’ll do it later. Let’s you and I head back to the Emirates—by way of Paris, naturally—maybe a couple of months in Paris, if you like. Okay?”

“
Not
okay, you
meshugenah
clown! You got something to say, you
say
it! I taught you always—whether we lost a contract or not—to say what you believed was right.… Okay, okay, maybe we fudged a little on time, but we
delivered
! And we
never
charged for extensions even when we had to pay!”

“Manny, that has nothing to do with what’s going on here—”

“It’s got
everything
! You’re building something.… And speaking of building, guess what, my goy boy?”

“What?”

“I’ve started the terrace steam bath and I’ve given the plans for the gazebo down by the streams.
Nobody
interrupts Emmanuel Weingrass until his designs are completed to his satisfaction!”

“Manny, you’re
impossible
!”

“I may have heard that before.”

Milos Varak walked down a graveled path in Rock Creek Park toward a bench that overlooked a ravine where offshoot waters of the Potomac rushed below. It was a remote, peaceful area, away from the concrete pavements above, favored by the summer tourists wishing to get away from the heat and hustle of the streets. As the Czech expected, the Speaker of the House of Representatives was already there, sitting on the bench, his thatch of white hair concealed by an Irish walking cap, the visor half over his face, his long, painfully thin frame covered by an unnecessary raincoat in the sweltering humidity of an August afternoon in Washington. The Speaker wanted no one to notice him; it was not his normal proclivity. Varak approached and spoke.

“Mr. Speaker, I’m honored to meet you, sir.”

“Son of a bitch, you
are
a foreigner!” The gaunt face with the dark eyes and arched white brows was an angry face, angry and yet defensive, the latter trait obviously repulsive to him. “If you’re some fucking Communist errand boy, you can pack it in right now,
Ivan
! I’m not running for another term. I’m out, finished, kaput come January, and what happened thirty or forty years ago doesn’t mean doodlely shit! You read me,
Boris
?”

“You’ve had an outstanding career and have been a positive force for your country, sir—also my country now. As to my being a Russian or an agent from the Eastern bloc, I’ve fought both for the past ten years, as a number of people in this government know.”

The granite-eyed politician studied Varak. “You wouldn’t have the guts or the stupidity to say that to me unless you could back it up,” he intoned in the pungent accent of a northern New Englander. “Still, you
threatened
me!”

“Only to get your attention, to convince you to see me. May I sit down?”

“Sit,” said the Speaker, as if addressing a dog he expected to obey him. Varak did so, maintaining ample space between them. “What do you know about the events that may or may not have taken place sometime back in the fifties?”

“It was the seventeenth of March, 1951, to be exact,” replied the Czech. “On that day a male child was born in Belfast’s Lady of Mercy Hospital to a young woman who had emigrated to America several years previously. She had returned to Ireland, her explanation indeed a sad one. Her husband had died and in her bereavement she wanted to have their child at home, among her family.”

His gaze cold and unflinching, the Speaker said, “So?”

“I think you know, sir. There was no husband over here, but there was a man who must have loved her very much. A rising young politician trapped in an unhappy marriage from which he could not escape because of the laws of the Church and his constituents’ blind adherence to them. For years this man, who was also an attorney, sent money to the woman and visited her and the child in Ireland as often as he could … as an American uncle, of course—”

“You can prove who these people were?” interrupted the aging Speaker curtly. “Not hearsay or rumor or questionable eyewitness identification, but written proof?”

“I can.”

“With what? How?”

“Letters were exchanged.”

“
Liar!
” snapped the septuagenarian. “She burned every damned one before she died!”

“I’m afraid she burned all but one,” said Varak softly. “I believe she had every intention of destroying it, too, but death came earlier than she expected. Her husband found it buried under several articles in her bedside table. Of course, he doesn’t know who
E
is, nor does he care to know. He’s only grateful that his wife declined your offer and stayed with him these past twenty years.”

The old man turned away, the hint of tears welling in his eyes, sniffed away in self-discipline. “My wife had left me then,” he said, barely audible. “Our daughter and son were in college and there was no reason to keep up the rotten pretense any longer. Things had changed, outlooks changed, and I was as secure as a Kennedy in Boston. Even the la-di-das in the archdiocese kept their mouths shut—of course, I let a few of those sanctimonious bastards know that if there was any Church interference during the election, I’d encourage the black radicals and the Jews to raise hell in the House over their holy tax-exempt status. The bishop damn near threw up in apoplexy, screaming all kinds of damnation at me for setting a hellfire public example but I
settled his hash. I told him my departing wife had probably slept with him, too.” The white-haired Speaker with the deeply lined face fell silent. “Mother of
God
,” he cried to himself, the tears now apparent. “I wanted that girl back!”

“I’m sure you’re not referring to your wife.”

“You know exactly whom I mean, Mr. No-name! But she couldn’t do it. A decent man had given her a home and our son a name for nearly fifteen years. She couldn’t leave him—even for me. I’ll tell you the truth, I kept her last letter, too. Both letters were our last to each other. ‘We’ll be joined in the hereafter heaven,’ she wrote me. ‘But no further on this earth, my darling.’ What kind of
crap
was
that
? We could have had a
life
, a goddamned
good
part of life!”

“If I may, sir, I think it was the expression of a loving woman who had as much respect for you as she did for herself and her son. You had children of your own, and explanations from the past can destroy the future. You had a future, Mr. Speaker.”

“I would have chucked it all in—”

“She couldn’t let you do that, any more than she could destroy the man who had given her and the child a home and a name.”