The Icarus Agenda (82 page)

“Oh,
Jesus
!” exclaimed Mrs. Vanvlanderen.

“So now we have two crises,” continued Grinell, walking to a white marble telephone on a red-lined marble table against the wall. “Our weak, ubiquitous Secretary of State is on his way to Cyprus to sign an agreement that could cripple the defense industry, and one of our own is linked to Palestinian terrorists.… In a way, I wish to heaven I knew how Andrew did it. We may be far clumsier.” He dialed as the widow and the scientist watched. “The switch from Design Six to Design Twelve, Mediterranean, is confirmed,” said the attorney into the phone. “And prepare the medical unit, if you will, please.”

Varak raced around the corner to the service entrance and took the freight elevator up to his floor. He then walked rapidly to his rooms, unlocked the door and rushed to the sophisticated vertical recording equipment against the wall, somewhat startled to see that so much tape had been used. He ascribed it to various telephone calls received by Ardis Vanvlanderen. He flipped the switch that allowed dual transmission, tape and direct audio, put on the earphones and sat down to listen.

She left about an hour and a half ago
.

She? Who
?

A woman named Rashad, a counterterrorist expert. She’s with a cross-over unit
.…

The Czech glanced at the spool of exposed tape. There were at least twenty-five minutes of recorded conversation on it! What was the former operations officer from Egypt doing in
San Diego
? It made no sense to Milos. She had resigned from the Agency; he had
confirmed
it. The quiet but official word out of Cairo and Washington was that she had been “open to compromise.” He assumed it was the Oman operation and thoroughly accepted her vanishing. She
had
to fade—but she had
not
! He listened further to the conversation taking place in the Vanvlanderen suite. Sundstrom was speaking.

He did it, didn’t he, Ardis? That financial megalomaniac couldn’t stand the possibility that a small group of ‘benevolent misfits’ might replace his man with another who could cut off his pipeline to millions and probably would
.

Then Ardis Vanvlanderen:

Eight hundred million, that’s what he said. Eight hundred million for him alone, billions for all the rest of you … I didn’t know a thing
!

Varak was stunned. He had made
two
enormous errors! The first concerned the covert activities of Adrienne Khalehla Rashad, and as difficult as it was for him to accept this error, he could do so, for she was an experienced intelligence officer. The second he could
not
accept! The false scenario he had presented to Inver Brass had been
true
! It had never occurred to him that Andrew Vanvlanderen would act independently of his wife. How
could
he? Theirs was a La Rochefoucauld marriage, one of convenience, of mutual benefit, certainly not of affection, to say nothing of love. Andy-boy had broken the rules. A bull in financial heat had crashed open the gates of his corral and raced into the slaughterhouse. Varak listened.

Another voice, another name. A man named Crayton Grinell. The tape rolled as the Czech concentrated on the words being spoken. Finally:

So now we have two crises. Our weak, ubiquitous Secretary of State is on his way to Cyprus to sign an agreement that could cripple the defense industry.… The switch from Design Six to Design Twelve, Mediterranean, is confirmed
.

Varak tore off the earphones. Whatever remained to be heard in the Vanvlanderen suite would be recorded. He had to move quickly. He got out of the chair and rushed across the room to the telephone. He picked it up and pressed the numbers for Cynwid Hollow, Maryland.

“Yes?”

“Sir, it’s Varak.”

“What is it, Milos? What have you learned?”

“It’s Sundstrom—”

“What?”

“That can wait, Dr. Winters, something else cannot. The Secretary of State is flying to Cyprus. Can you find out
when
?”

“I don’t have to find out, I know. So does everyone else who watches television or listens to the radio. It’s quite a breakthrough—”

“
When
, sir?”

“He left London about an hour ago. There was the usual statement about bringing the world closer to peace and that sort of thing—”

“In the
Mediterranean
!” interrupted Varak, controlling his voice. “It will happen in the Mediterranean.”

“What will?”

“I don’t know. A strategy called Design Twelve, that’s all I heard. It will happen on the ground or in the air. They want to stop him.”

“
Who
does?”

“The contributors. A man named Grinell, Crayton Grinell. If I tried to break in and find out, they might take me. There are men outside the door and I cannot jeopardize the group. I certainly would never willingly disclose information, but there are drugs—”

“Yes, I know.”

“Reach Frank Swann at the State Department. Tell the switchboard to raise him wherever he is and use the phrase ‘crisis containment.’ ”

“Why Swann?”

“He’s a specialist, sir. He ran the Oman operation for State.”

“Yes, I know that, but I might have to tell him more than I care to.… There may be a better way, Milos. Stay on the line, I’m going to put you on hold.” Each ten seconds that went by seemed like minutes to Varak, then they
were
minutes! What was Winters
doing
? They did not have minutes to waste. Finally the spokesman for Inver Brass was back on the phone. “I’m going to switch us to a conference call, Milos. Another will be joining us, but it’s understood that neither of you is required to identify yourself. I trust this man completely and he accepts the condition. He’s also in what you term ‘crisis containment’ and has far greater resources than Swann.” There were two clicks over the line and Winters continued. “Go ahead, gentlemen. Mr. A, this is Mr. B.”

“I understand you have something to tell me, Mr. A.”

“Yes, I do,” replied Varak. “The circumstances are not relevant but the information is verified. The Secretary of State is in imminent danger. There are people who do not want him to attend the conference on Cyprus and they intend to stop him. They’re employing a plan or a tactic called ‘Design Twelve, Mediterranean.’ The individual who gave the order is named Grinell, a Crayton Grinell of San Diego. I know nothing about him.”

“I see.… Let me phrase this as delicately as I can, Mr. A. Are you in a position to tell us the current whereabouts of this Grinell?”

“I have no choice, Mr. B. The Westlake Hotel. Suite Three C. I have no idea how long he’ll be there. Hurry, and send firepower. He’s guarded.”

“Will you do me the courtesy, Mr. A, of remaining on the line for a moment or two?”

“So you can trace this leg of the call?”

“I wouldn’t do that. I’ve given my word.”

“He’ll keep it,” interrupted Samuel Winters.

“It’s difficult for me,” said the Czech.

“I’ll be quick.”

A single click was heard and Winters spoke. “You really didn’t have a choice, Milos. The Secretary is the sanest man in the administration.”

“I’m aware of that, sir.”

“I can’t get over Sundstrom!
Why
?”

“No doubt a combination of reasons, not the least of which are his patents in space technology. Others may build the hardware but the government is the primary buyer. Space is now synonymous with defense.”

“He can’t want more money! He gives most of it
away
.”

“But if the market slows down, so does production and therefore the experimentation—the last is a passion with him.”

Another click. “I’m back, Mr. A,” said the third party. “Everyone’s alerted over in the Mediterranean, and arrangements have been made to pick up Grinell in San Diego as quietly as possible, of course.”

“Why was it necessary for me to remain on the phone?”

“Because, quite frankly, if I hadn’t been able to make the arrangements in San Diego,” said Mitchell Payton, “I was going to appeal to your patriotism for further assistance. You’re obviously an experienced man.”

“What kind of assistance?”

“Nothing that would compromise our understanding with regard to this call. Only to follow Grinell should he leave the hotel and call our go-between with the information.”

“What made you think I’m in a position to do that?”

“I didn’t. I could only hope, and there were several things to do quickly, mainly the Mediterranean.”

“For your information, I’m not in such a position,” lied Varak. “I’m nowhere near the hotel.”

“Then I may have made two mistakes. I mentioned, ‘patriotism,’ but by the way you speak, this may not be your country.”

“It is my country now,” said the Czech.

“Then it owes you a great deal.”

“I must go.” Varak hung up the phone and walked rapidly back to the tape machine. He sat down and clamped the earphones over his head, his eyes straying to the reel of tape. It had
stopped
. He listened. Nothing. Silence! In desperation he snapped a succession of switches up and down and left and right. There was no response with any of them … no sound. The voice-activated recorder was not functioning because the Vanvlanderen suite was empty! He had to
move
! Above everything, he had to find Sundstrom! For the sake of Inver Brass, the traitor had to be killed.

Khalehla walked down the wide corridor toward the elevators. She had called MJ and, after discussing the horror of Mesa Verde, played him the entire conversation with Ardis Vanvlanderen that she had recorded on the miniaturized equipment concealed in her black notebook. Both were satisfied; the grieving widow had left her grief behind in a sea of hysteria. It was apparent to both of them that Mrs. Vanvlanderen had known nothing about her dead husband’s contact with the terrorists, but had learned about it after the fact. The sudden appearance of an intelligence officer from Cairo with the upside-down information she carried had been enough to send Ardis the manipulator right through the roof of her skull. Uncle Mitch had been true to form.

“Take five, Field Officer Rashad.”

“I’d like to take a shower and have a quiet meal. I don’t think I’ve eaten since the Bahamas.”

“Order room service. We’ll stand for one of your outrageous bills. You’ve earned it.”

“I
hate
room service. All those waiters who deliver food for a single female preen as though they’re the answer to her sexual fantasies. If I can’t have one of my grandmother’s meals—”

“You
can’t
.”

“Okay. Then I know a few good restaurants—”

“Go ahead. By midnight I’ll have a list of every telephone number our distraught widow has called. Eat well, my dear. Get energy. You may be working all night.”

“You’re too generous. May I call Evan, who with any luck could be my intended?”

“You may but you won’t get him. Colorado Springs sent a jet to take him and Emmanuel to the hospital in Denver. They’re
airborne
.”

“Thanks again.”

“You’re welcome, Rashad.”

“You’re too kind,
sir
.”

Khalehla pressed the button for the elevator, hearing the rumble in her stomach. She had
not
eaten since the meal on the Air Force jet, and that had been somewhat destroyed by the nervous enzymes produced by Evan’s condition—the vomiting and all it signified.… Dear Evan, brilliant Evan, dumb Evan. The risk-taker with more morals than suited his approach to life; she wondered briefly if he would have that same integrity if he had failed. It was an open question; he was a compulsively competitive man who looked somewhat arrogantly down from his perch of
not
having failed. And it was not hard to understand how he had fallen under the spell, or shell, of Ardis Montreaux in Saudi Arabia ten or twelve years ago. That girl must have been something, a flashy lady on a fast track with a face and a body to go with the course. Yet he had fled from the spider—that was
her
Evan.

She heard the ping of the bell and the elevator doors parted. Happily, it was empty; she stepped inside and pressed the button for the lobby. The panels closed and the machine started its descent, only to slow down immediately. She looked up at the lighted numbers over the doors; the elevator was stopping at the third floor. It was simply a coincidence, she thought. MJ was sure that Ardis Vanvlanderen, proprietor of Suite
₃
C, would not dare leave the hotel.

The doors opened, and while her eyes remained disinterestedly straight ahead, Khalehla was relieved to peripherally see that the passenger was a lone man with light-colored hair and what appeared to be immense shoulders that filled out his jacket to the point of almost stretching the fabric. Yet there was something strange about him, she thought. As one can when one is alone with a single human being in a small enclosure, she could sense a high level of energy emanating from her unknown companion. There was an atmosphere of anger or anxiety that seemed to permeate the elevator. Then she could feel him looking at her, not the way men usually appraised her—furtively, with glances; she was used to that—but staring at her, the unseen eyes steady, intense, unwavering.

The doors closed as she casually grimaced to herself; it was
the expression of someone who may have forgotten something. Again casually, she opened her purse as if to check for the possibly missing item. She exhaled audibly, her face relaxed; the item was there. It was. Her gun. The elevator began its descent as she glanced at the stranger.

She
froze
! His eyes were two orbs of controlled white heat, and the short, neatly combed hair was light blond. He could be no one
else
! The blond European … he was one of
them
! Khalehla lurched for the panel as she yanked out her automatic, dropping her purse and pressing the emergency button. Beyond the doors, the alarm sounded as the elevator jerked to a stop and the blond man stepped forward.

Khalehla fired, the explosion deafening in the tight enclosure, the bullet passing over the intense stranger’s head as it was meant to.