The Icarus Agenda (56 page)

“The cargo consisted of you and an old Arab in Western
clothes, a longtime subagent for Cons Op who was being flown over for medical treatment. His name was Ali something-or-other; State cleared him and he vanished. That’s straight, Kendrick. No one in this government is aware of a Mr. Weingrass.”

“Thanks, Herb.”

“Thanks for the ‘Herb.’ Is there anything I can do?”

Evan stared at the casement window, then at the floodlit grounds and the marine guard outside and everything the scene represented. “I’m going to do you a favor and say no,” he said softly. “At least for now. But you can clarify something for me. This phone has a tap on it, doesn’t it?”

“Not the usual variety. There’s a little black box like those on aircraft. It has to be removed by authorized personnel and the tapes processed under the strictest security measures.”

“Can you stop the operation for, say, thirty minutes or so, until I reach someone? You’d want it that way, believe me.”

“I’ll accept that.… Sure, there’s an override on the line; our people use it a lot when they’re in those houses. Give me five minutes and call Moscow, if you like.”

“Five minutes.”

“May I go back to my shower now?”

“Try Clorox this time.” Kendrick replaced the phone and took out his wallet, slipping his index finger under the flap behind his Colorado driver’s license. He removed the scrap of paper with Frank Swann’s two private telephone numbers written on it and again looked at his watch. He would wait ten minutes and hope that the deputy director of Consular Operations was at one place or the other. He was. At his apartment, of course. After curt greetings, Evan explained where he was—where he thought he was.

“How’s ‘protective seclusion’?” asked Swann, sounding weary. “I’ve been to several of those places when we’ve interrogated defectors. I hope you’ve got one with stables or at least two pools, one inside, naturally. They’re all alike; I think the government buys them as political payoffs for the rich who get tired of their estates and want to buy new ones gratis. I hope somebody’s listening. I don’t have a pool anymore.”

“There’s a croquet course, I’ve seen that.”

“Small time. What have you got to tell me? Am I any closer to getting off the hook?”

“Maybe. At least I’ve tried to take some heat off you.… Frank, I’ve got to ask you a question and we can both say
anything we like, use any names we like. There’s no tap on the phone here now.”

“Who told you that?”

“Dennison.”

“And you
believed
him? Incidentally, I couldn’t care less if this transcript’s given to him.”

“I believe him because he has a clue as to what I’m going to say and wants to put a couple of thousand miles between the administration and what we’re going to talk about. He said we’re on an ‘override.’ ”

“He’s right. He’s afraid of some loose cannon hearing your words. What is it?”

“Manny Weingrass, and through him linkage to the Mossad—”

“I told you, that’s a no-no,” broke in the deputy director. “Okay, we’re
really
on override. Go ahead.”

“Dennison told me that the Oman file lists the cargo on the plane from Bahrain to Andrews Air Force Base on that last morning as consisting of me and an old Arab in Western clothing who was a subagent for Consular Operations—”

“And who was being brought over here for medical treatment,” interrupted Swann. “After years of invaluable cooperation our clandestine services owed Ali Saada and his family that much.”

“You’re sure that was the wording?”

“Who would know it better? I wrote it.”

“
You?
Then you knew it was Weingrass?”

“It wasn’t difficult. Your instructions relayed by Grayson were pretty damned clear. You demanded—demanded, mind you—that an unnamed person accompany you on that plane back to the States—”

“I was covering for the Mossad.”

“Obviously, and so was I. You see, bringing someone in like that is against the rules—forget the law—unless he’s on our books. So I put him on the books as someone else.”

“But how did you know it was Manny?”

“That was the easiest part. I spoke to the chief of the Bahrainian Royal Guards, who was assigned as your covert escort. The physical description was probably enough, but when he told me that the old bastard kicked one of his men in the knee because he let you stumble getting into the car to the airport, I knew it was Weingrass. His reputation, as they say, has always preceded him.”

“I appreciate your doing that,” said Evan softly. “Both for him and for me.”

“It was the only way of thanking you that I could think of.”

“Then I can assume that no one in Washington intelligence circles knows that Weingrass was involved in Oman.”

“Absolutely. Forget Masqat, he’s a nonperson. He’s just not among the living over here.”

“Dennison didn’t even know who he was—”

“Of course not.”

“He’s being followed, Frank. Out in Colorado, he’s under someone’s surveillance.”

“Not ours.”

Eight hundred ninety-five feet due north of the sterile house on the waters of Chesapeake Bay was the estate of Dr. Samuel Winters, honored historian and for over forty years friend and adviser to presidents of the United States. In his younger days the immensely wealthy academic was considered an outstanding sportsman; trophies for polo, tennis, skiing and sailing lined the shelves of his private study, attesting to his former skills. Now there remained for the aging educator a more passive game that had been a minor passion with the Winters family for generations, initially making its appearance on the lawn of their mansion in Oyster Bay during the early twenties. The game was croquet, and whenever any member of the family built on new property, among the first considerations was a proper lawn for the very official course that never deviated from the 40- by 75-foot dimensions as prescribed by the National Croquet Association in 1882. So one of the sights that caught the eye of a visitor to Dr. Winters’s estate was the croquet “field” to the right of the enormous house above the waters of the Chesapeake. Its charm was enhanced by the many pieces of white wrought-iron furniture that bordered the course, areas of respite for those studying their next moves or having a drink.

The scene was identical with the croquet course at the sterile house 895 feet to the south of Winters’s property, and it was only fitting that it should be, for all the land upon which both mansions stood originally belonged to Samuel Winters. Five years ago—with the silent resurrection of Inver Brass—Dr. Winters had quietly donated the south estate to the United States government for use as a “safe,” or “sterile,” house. In order to deter the amiably curious and divert hostile probes by potential enemies of the United States, the transaction was never revealed.
According to the property records filed in the Town Hall of Cynwid Hollow, the house and grounds still belonged to Samuel and Martha Jennifer Winters (the latter deceased), and for which the family’s accountants annually paid the inordinately high shoreline taxes, refunded secretly by a grateful government. If any of the curious, friendly or unfriendly alike, inquired into the activity at this aristocratic compound, they were invariably told that it never stopped, that limousines and caterers carried and cared for the great and the near great of the academic world and industry, all representing the varied interests of Samuel Winters. A squad of strong young gardeners kept the place trim to a fare-thee-well, and served also as staff, seeing to the needs of the constant stream of visitors. The image conveyed was that of a multimillionaire’s multipurpose think tank in the countryside—far too open to be anything but what it purported to be.

To maintain the integrity of that image, all bills were sent to Samuel Winters’s accountants, who promptly paid them with duplicates of these payments forwarded to the historian’s personal lawyer, who, in turn, had them hand-delivered to the Department of State for covert reimbursement. It was a simple arrangement and beneficial to all concerned, as simple and as beneficial as it was for Dr. Winters to suggest to President Langford Jennings that Congressman Evan Kendrick might simply benefit by a few days out of the media limelight at the “safe house” south of his property, since there was no activity there at the time. The President gratefully concurred; he would have Herb Dennison take care of the arrangements.

Milos Varak removed the large anti-impedance earphones from his head and shut down the electronic console on the table in front of him. He swung his chair to the left, snapped a switch on the nearby wall, and instantly heard the quiet gears that lowered the directional dish on the roof. He then got out of the chair and wandered aimlessly around the sophisticated communications equipment in the soundproof studio in the cellars of Samuel Winters’s house. He was alarmed. What he had overheard on the telephone intercept from the sterile house was beyond his understanding.

As the State Department’s Swann so unequivocally confirmed, no one in the Washington intelligence community was aware of Emmanuel Weingrass. They had no idea that “the old Arab” who had flown back from Bahrain with Evan Kendrick
was
Weingrass. In Swann’s words, his “thank you” to Evan
Kendrick for the Congressman’s efforts in Oman was to get Weingrass secretly out of Bahrain and with equal secrecy into the United States by using a disguise and a cover. The man and the cover had bureaucratically disappeared; Weingrass was virtually a “nonperson.” Too, Swann’s deception was mandatory because of Weingrass’s Mossad connection, a deception thoroughly understood by Kendrick. In point of fact, the Congressman himself had taken extreme measures to conceal the presence and the identity of his elderly friend. Milos had learned that the old man had been entered into the hospital under the name of Manfred Weinstein, and put in a room in a private wing with its own secluded entrance, and that upon release he had been flown to Colorado in a private jet to Mesa Verde.

Everything was
private
; Weingrass’s name was never recorded anywhere. And during the months of his convalescence the irascible architect only infrequently left the house and never to places where the Congressman was known.
Damn!
thought Varak. Except for Kendrick’s close personal circle that excluded
everyone
but a trusted secretary, her husband, an Arab couple in Virginia and three overpaid nurses whose generous salaries included total confidentiality, Emmanuel Weingrass did not
exist
!

Varak walked back to the console table, disengaged the Record button, rewound the tape, and found the words he wanted to hear again.

Then I can assume that no one in Washington intelligence circles knows that Weingrass was involved in Oman?

Absolutely. Forget Masqat, he’s a nonperson. He’s just not among the living over here
.

Dennison didn’t even know who he was
—

Of course not
.

He’s being followed, Frank. Out in Colorado, he’s under someone’s surveillance
.

Not ours
.

“Not ours …”
Whose?

That question was what alarmed Varak. The only people who knew that there
was
an Emmanuel Weingrass, who had been told how much that old man meant to Evan Kendrick, were the five members of Inver Brass. Could one of them—?

Milos did not want to think anymore. At the moment it was too painful for him.

*   *   *

Adrienne Rashad was snapped awake by the sudden turbulence encountered by the military aircraft. She looked across the aisle in the dimly lit cabin with its less-than-first-class accommodations. The attaché from the embassy in Cairo was obviously upset—afraid, to be precise. Yet the man was experienced enough with such transport to bring along a comforting friend, specifically an outsized leather-bound flask, which he literally ripped out of his briefcase and drank from until he was aware that his “cargo” was looking at him. Sheepishly he held up the flask toward her. She shook her head and spoke over the sound of the jet engines. “Just potholes,” she said.

“
Hey
, pals!” cried the voice of the pilot over the intercom. “Sorry about the potholes but I’m afraid this weather’s unavoidable for about another thirty minutes or so. We have to stick to our channel and away from commercial routes. You should have flown the friendly skies, buddies. Hang on!”

The attaché drank once again from the flask, this time longer and more fully than before. Adrienne turned away, the Arab in her telling her not to observe a man’s fear, the Western woman in her makeup saying that as an experienced military flier she should allay her companion’s fear. The synthesis in her won the argument; she smiled reassuringly at the attaché and returned to her thoughts that had been broken off by sleep.

Why had she been so peremptorily ordered back to Washington? If there were new instructions so delicate that they could not be put on scramblers, why hadn’t Mitchell Payton called her with at least a clue? It wasn’t like “Uncle Mitch” to permit any interference with her work unless he told her something about it. Even with the Oman mess a year ago, and if ever there was a priority situation that was it, Mitch had sent sealed instructions to her by diplomatic courier telling her without explanation to cooperate with the State Department’s Consular Operations no matter how offended she might be. She had, and it had offended her, indeed. Now out of the blue she had been ordered back to the States, virtually incommunicado, without a single word from Mitchell Payton.

Congressman Evan Kendrick
. For the past eighteen hours his name had rolled across the world like the sound of approaching thunder. One could almost see the frightened faces of those who had been involved with the American, looking up at the sky wondering if they should run for cover, run for their lives, under the threat of the impending storm. There would be vendettas
against those who had aided the interfering man from the West. She wondered who had leaked the story—no, “leaked” was too innocuous a word—who had
exploded
the story! The Cairo papers were filled with it, and a quick check confirmed that throughout the Middle East Evan Kendrick was either a holy saint or a hideous sinner. Canonization or an agonizing death was awaiting him depending upon where those judging him were, even within the same country.
Why?
Was it Kendrick himself who had done this? Had this vulnerable man, this improbable politician who had risked his life to avenge a terrible crime decided after a year of humility and self-denial to strike out for a political prize? If so, it was not the man she had known so briefly yet so intimately a year ago. With reservations but not regret she remembered. They had made love—improbably, frenetically, perhaps inevitably under the circumstances—but those transient moments of splendid comfort were to be forgotten. If she had been brought back to Washington because of a suddenly ambitious congressman, they had never existed.