The Icarus Agenda (49 page)

Why?

Who?

And then he felt a hollow, terrible pain in his chest.
Ahmat!
Oh, my God, what had he
done
? Would the young sultan understand,
could
he understand? By omission—by silence—the American media had condemned the entire country of Oman, leaving to insidious speculation its
Arab
impotence in the face of terrorists, or worse, its
Arab complicity
in the wanton, savage killing of American citizens.

He had to call his young friend, reach him and tell him that he had no control over what had happened. Kendrick sat on the edge of the bed; he grabbed the telephone while reaching into his trousers pocket for his wallet, balancing the phone under his chin as he extracted his credit card. Not remembering the sequence of numbers to reach Masqat, he dialed
O
for an operator. Suddenly the dial tone disappeared and for a moment he panicked, his eyes wide, glancing around at the windows.

“Yeah, twenty-three?” came the hoarse male voice over the line.

“I was trying to call the operator.”

“You dial even an area code you get the board here.”

“I … I have to make an overseas call,” stammered Evan, bewildered.

“Not on this phone you don’t.”

“On a
credit
card. How do I get an operator—I’m charging it to my
credit
card number.”

“I’ll listen in till I hear you give the number and it’s accepted for real, understand?”

He did
not
understand! Was it a
trap
? Had he been traced to
a run-down motel in Woodbridge, Virginia? “I don’t really think that’s acceptable,” he said haltingly. “It’s a private communication.”

“Fancy that,” replied the voice derisively. “Then go find yourself a pay phone. There’s one at the diner about five miles down the road. Ta-ta, asshole, I’ve been stuck enough—”

“
Wait
a minute! All
right
, stay on the line. But when the operator clears it, I want to hear you click off, okay?”

“Well, actually, I was gonna call Louella Parsons.”

“Who?”

“Forget it, asshole. I’m dialing. People who stay all day are either sex freaks or shooting up.”

Somewhere in the far reaches of the Persian Gulf an English-speaking, Arabic-accented operator volunteered that there was no exchange in Masqat, Oman, with the prefix 555. “Dial it, please!” insisted Evan, adding a more plaintive “
Please
.”

Eight rings passed until he heard Ahmat’s harried voice. “
Iwah?
”

“It’s Evan, Ahmat,” said Kendrick in English. “I have to talk to you—”

“
Talk
to me?” exploded the young sultan. “You’ve got the balls to
call
me, you
bastard
?”

“You know, then? About—what they’re saying about me.”

“
Know?
One of the nicer things about being a rich kid is that I’ve got dishes on the roof that pick up whatever I want
from
wherever I want! I’ve even got an edge on you,
ya Shaikh
. Have you seen the reports from over here and the Middle East? From Bahrain and Riyadh, from
Jerusalem
and
Tel Aviv
?”

“Obviously not. I’ve only seen these—”

“They’re all the same garbage, a nice pile for you to sit on! Do well in Washington, just don’t come back here.”

“But I
want
to come back. I
am
coming back!”

“Don’t, not to this part of the world. We can read and we can hear and we watch television. You did it all by
yourself
! You
stuck
it to the
Arabs
! Get out of my
memory
, you son of a bitch!”

“Ahmat!”

“
Out
, Evan! I would never have believed it of you. Do you become powerful in Washington by calling us all animals and terrorists? Is that the only way?”

“I never did that, I never
said
it!”

“Your world did! The way it keeps saying it again and again and
again
, until it’s pretty fucking obvious you want us all in chains! And the latest goddamned scenario is
yours
!”

“
No!
” protested Kendrick, shouting. “Not
mine
!”

“Read your press. Watch it!”

“That’s the press, not you and me!”

“You
are
you—one more arrogant bastard out of your blind, holier-than-thou Judeo-Christian hypocrisies—and I am
me
, an Islamic Arab. And you won’t spit on me any longer!”

“I never would, never
could
—”

“Nor on my brothers, whose lands you decreed should be stolen from them, forcing whole villages to abandon their homes and their jobs and their insignificantly small businesses—small and insignificant but theirs for generations!”

“For Christ’s sake, Ahmat, you’re sounding like one of
them
!”

“No kidding?” said the young sultan, both anger and sarcasm in his words. “By ‘them’ I assume you mean like a kid from one of those thousands upon thousands of families marched under guns into camps fit for pigs. For
pigs
, not families! Not for mothers and fathers and children!… Good gracious, Mr. all-knowing, eminently fair
American.
If I sound like one of them, gosh, I’m sorry! And I’ll tell you what else I’m sorry about: I got here so late. I understand so much more today than I did yesterday.”

“What the hell does
that
mean.”

“I repeat. Read your press, watch your television, listen to your radio. Are you superior people getting ready to nuke all the, dirty Arabs so you won’t have to contend with us anymore? Or are you going to leave it to your cool pals in Israel who tell you what to do anyway? You’ll simply give them the bombs.”

“Now, just
hold
it!” cried Kendrick. “Those Israelis saved my life!”

“You’re damned right they did, but you were incidental! You were just a bridge to what they really flew in here for.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I might as well tell you because no one else will, nobody’s going to print
that.
They didn’t give a shit about you, Mr. Hero. That unit came here to get
one
man out of the embassy, a Mossad agent, a high-ranking strategist posing as a naturalized American under contract to the State Department.”

“Oh, my
God
,” whispered Evan. “Did Weingrass know?”

“If he did he kept his mouth shut. He forced them to go after you in Bahrain.
That’s
how they saved your life. It wasn’t planned. They don’t give a good goddamn about anyone or anything but themselves. The
Jews
! Just like you, Mr.
Hero.
”

“Damn it,
listen
to me, Ahmat! I’m not responsible for what’s happened here, for what’s been printed in the papers or what’s on television. It’s the last thing I wanted—”

“
Bullshit!
” broke in the young Harvard alumnus and sultan of Oman. “None of it could have been reported without you. I learned things I had no idea about. Who
are
these intelligence agents of yours running around my country? Who are all those contacts you reached?”

“Mustapha, for one!”

“
Killed.
Who flew you in under cover without apprising
me
? I run the goddamn place; who has the
right
? Am I a fucking ‘aggie’ in a game of marbles?”

“
Ahmat
, I don’t know about these things. I only knew. I had to
get
there.”

“And I’m
incidental?
Wasn’t I to be trusted?…. Of course not, I’m an
Arab
!”

“Now
that’s
bullshit. You were being protected.”

“From what? An American-Israeli cover-up?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,
stop
it! I didn’t know anything about a Mossad agent at the embassy until you just told me. If I did I would have told
you
! And while we’re at it, my sudden young fanatic, I had nothing to do with the refugee camps or marching families into them under guns—”

“You
all
did!” shouted the sultan of Oman. “One genocide for another, but
we
had nothing to do with the other!
Out!
”

The line went dead. A good man and a good friend who had been instrumental in saving his life was gone from his life. As were his plans to return to a part of the world he dearly loved.

Before he showed himself in public, he had to find out what had happened and who had made it happen and
why
! He had to start somewhere and that somewhere was the State Department and a man named Frank Swann. A frontal assault on State was, of course, out of the question. The minute he identified himself alarms would go off, and insofar as his face was seen repeatedly, ad nauseam, on television and half of Washington was searching for him, his every move had to be carefully thought out. First things first: how to reach Swann without Swann or his office knowing it. His office? Evan remembered. A year ago he had walked into Swann’s office and spoken to a secretary, giving her several words in Arabic so as to convey the urgency of his visit. She had disappeared into another office and ten minutes later he and Swann were talking in the underground computer complex.
That secretary was not only efficient but also exceedingly protective, as apparently were most secretaries in serpentine Washington. And since that protective secretary was very much aware of one Congressman Kendrick, whom she had spoken to a year ago, she just might be receptive to another voice also protective of her boss. It was worth a try; it was also the only thing he could think of. He picked up the phone, dialed the 202 area code for Washington, and waited for the hoarse manager of the Three Bears motel to come on the line.

“Consular Operations, Director Swann’s office,” said the secretary.

“Hi, this is Ralph over in ID,” began Kendrick. “I’ve got some news for Frank.”

“
Who’s
this?”

“It’s okay, I’m a friend of Frank’s. I just want to tell him that there may be an interdivision meeting called for later this afternoon—”

“
Another
one? He doesn’t need that.”

“How’s his schedule?”

“Overworked! He’s in conference until four o’clock.”

“Well, if he doesn’t want to be put on the grill again, maybe he should have a short day and drive home early.”

“Drive?
Him?
He’ll parachute into the jungles of Nicaragua, but he won’t take chances in Washington traffic.”

“You know what I mean. Things are a little jumpy around here. He could be put on the spit.”

“He’s been on it since six this morning.”

“Just trying to help out a buddy.”

“Actually, he’s got a doctor’s appointment,” said the secretary suddenly.

“He does?”

“He does now. Thanks, Ralph.”

“I never called you.”

“Of course not, sweetie. Someone in ID was just checking schedules.”

Evan stood in the crowd waiting for a bus at the corner of Twenty-first Street within clear sight of the entrance to the Department of State. After speaking to Swann’s secretary, he had left the cabin and driven rapidly up to Washington, stopping briefly at a shopping mall in Alexandria where he bought dark glasses, a wide-brimmed canvas fishing hat and a soft cloth
jacket. It was 3:48 in the afternoon; if the secretary had pursued her protective inclinations, Frank Swann, deputy director of Consular Operations, would be coming out of the huge glass doors within the next fifteen or twenty minutes.

He did. At 4:03 and in a hurry, turning left on the pavement away from the bus stop. Kendrick rushed out of the crowd and started after the man from the State Department, staying thirty feet behind him, wondering what means of transportation the nondriving Swann would take. If he intended to walk, Kendrick would stop him in front of a vest-pocket park, or someplace else where they could talk undisturbed.

He was not going to walk; he was about to take a bus heading east on Virginia Avenue. Swann joined several others waiting for the same vehicle now lumbering down the street toward the stop. Evan hurried to the corner; he could not allow the Cons Op director to get on that bus. He approached Swann and touched his shoulder. “Hello, Frank,” said Kendrick pleasantly, taking off the dark glasses.

“
You!
” shouted the astonished Swann, startling the other passengers as the doors of the bus cracked open.

“Me,” admitted Evan quietly. “I think we’d better talk.”

“Good
Christ
! You’ve got to be out of your mind!”

“If I am, you’ve driven me there, even if you don’t drive—”

It was as far as their brief conversation got, for suddenly an odd voice filled the street, echoing off the side of the bus. “It’s
him
!” roared a strange-looking, disheveled man with wide, popping eyes and long, wild hair that fell over his ears and his forehead. “See!
Look!
It’s him!
Commando Kendrick!
I seen him all day long on the television—I got seven televisions in my apartment! Nothin’ goes on I don’t know about! It’s
him
!”

Before Evan could react the man grabbed the fishing hat off his head. “
Hey!
” shouted Kendrick.

“See! Look!
Him!
”

“Let’s get out of here!” cried Swann.

They started running up the street, the odd-looking man in pursuit, his baggy trousers flopping in the wind he created, Evan’s hat in his hand, his arms flailing.

“He’s following us!” said the Cons Op director, looking back.

“He’s got my hat!” said Kendrick.

Two blocks later, a doddering blue-haired lady with a cane was climbing out of a cab. “
There!
” yelled Swann. “The taxi!” Dodging traffic, they raced across the wide avenue. Evan climbed in the near door as the man from the State Department
ran around the trunk to the far side; he helped the elderly passenger out and inadvertently kicked the cane with his foot. It fell to the pavement; so did the blue-haired lady. “Sorry, dear,” said Swann, jumping into the backseat.