The Icarus Agenda (91 page)

“Don’t be too apologetic,” admonished Kendrick, smiling. “Loyalty to one’s boss isn’t anything to be sorry about.” Evan turned to Bollinger. “If he’s a black belt, I’m getting out of here fast,” he added, breaking the momentary tension with laughter.

“He plays a mean game of Ping-Pong,” said the older aide on the left of the couch.

“He’s very creative keeping score,” said the oldest staffer on the right. “He cheats.”

“At any rate,” continued Evan, waiting until the grins—mostly forced—had left the assembled faces. “I meant it when I said I wanted to be completely frank with you, Mr. Vice President. These are the things I have to think about. I’ve lost four, almost five years, of a career—a business—I worked extremely hard to develop. I was short-circuited by a mad killer and forced to sell because people were afraid to work for me. He’s dead and things have changed; they’re getting back to normal, but the European competition is heavy. Can I do it by myself or should I actively campaign for the ticket and, if I succeed, have certain guarantees that result from holding the office? On the other hand, do I really want to spend the additional years and the enormous amounts of time and energy that go with the job?… These are questions only I can answer, sir. I hope you understand.”

And then Kendrick heard the words he had hoped beyond hope to hear—hope in this case far more meaningful than in his statement to Bollinger.

“I know it’s late for your staff, Orson,” said the tall, lanky man in the open shirt that set off his suntanned flesh, “but I’d like to talk a little further.”

“Yes, certainly,” agreed the Vice President, turning to his aides. “These poor fellas have been up since dawn, what with the dreadful news about Ardis and all. Go home, boys, and have Christmas with your families—I brought all the wives and kids out here on Air Force Two, Evan, so they could be together.”

“Very thoughtful, sir.”

“Thoughtful, hell. Maybe they
all
have black belts.… You’re dismissed, troops. Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve, and if I remember correctly, the next day’s Christmas. So unless the Ruskies blow up Washington, I’ll see you in three days.”

“Thank you, Mr. Vice President.”

“You’re very kind, sir.”

“We can stay, if you wish,” said the oldest, as each successively got out of his chair.

“And have you mauled by your two associates?” asked Bollinger, grinning at the expressions of the others. “I wouldn’t hear of it. On your way out, send in the butler. We might as well have a brandy while we solve all the world’s problems.”

See-No-Evil, Speak-No-Evil, and Hear-No-Evil left the room, programmed robots reacting to a familiar marching tune. The man in the gold-button navy blue blazer leaned forward in his chair, his stomach making it difficult for him. “You want to talk frankly, Congressman? Real frank and real honest? Well, we’re going to do that.”

“I don’t understand, Mr.… I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

“Cut the hoss-shit!” exclaimed the florid Bostonian. “I’ve heard better crap from the ward heelers in Southie.”

“You may fool the pols in D.C.,” said the small man in the too-large chair, “but we’re businessmen, too, Kendrick. You’ve got something to offer and maybe—just
maybe
—we’ve got something to offer.”

“
How
do you enjoy southern California, Congressman?” The tall man with the open shirt and the outstretched legs spoke loudly as a butler entered the room.

“Nothing,
nothing
,” exclaimed Bollinger, addressing the tuxedoed servant. “Never mind. Leave us.”

“I’m sorry, sir, I have a message for you,” said the butler, handing the Vice President a note.

Bollinger read it; his face at first grew red, then rapidly paled.
“Tell him to wait,” he ordered. The butler left the room. “Where were we?”

“At a price,” said the man from Boston. “That’s what we’re talkin’ about, isn’t it, Congressman?”

“That’s a little blunt,” answered Evan. “But the term is in the realm of possibility.”

“You should understand,” said the small man with the pinched face, “that you passed through two separate powerful detectors. You may get sick from the X rays, but you don’t have any recording machines on you.”

“They’d be the last things I’d want.”

“
Good
,” said the tall man, getting out of the chair as if solely to impress the others with his formidable height and his image as the tanned, rugged yachtsman or whatever he was; strength was the message. He sauntered to the fireplace mantel—High Noon in the Town of Corruption, thought Kendrick. “We caught your leeward drift about German, French and Japanese capital. How steep are the waves in open water?”

“I’m afraid I’m not a sailor. You’ll have to be clearer.”

“What are you up against?”

“Financially?” asked Evan, pausing, then shaking his head in dismissal. “Nothing I can’t handle. I can commit seven to ten million, if I have to, and my lines of credit are extensive … but, of course, so are the interest rates.”

“Suppose lines of credit were established without those kinda burdens?” said the man familiar with the ward heelers of South Boston.

“
Gentlemen
,” interrupted Bollinger sharply, getting out of his chair as those seated did also in deference to his obviously imminent departure. “I understand that I have an urgent matter to attend to. If you need anything, feel free to ask for it.”

“We won’t be long, Mr. Vice President,” said Kendrick, knowing why Bollinger had to distance himself from whatever ensuing conversation took place; deniability was the byword. “As I mentioned, this is a problem that only I can properly resolve. I just wanted to be open with you.”

“It’s greatly appreciated, Evan. Stop in and see me before you leave. I’ll be in my office.”

The Vice President of the United States left the book-lined room, and like jackals descending on their prey, the contributors turned to the congressman from Colorado. “We level now, son,” said the six-foot-five yachtsman, his arm on the mantel like a leaning, angry weed.

“I’m not a relative of yours, thank you, and I resent the familiarity.”

“Big Tom always talks like that,” chimed in the Bostonian. “He don’t mean no harm by it.”

“The harm is in his presumption with a member of the House of Representatives.”

“Oh, come on, Congressman!” interjected the obese man in the navy blue blazer.

“Let’s all relax,” said the small-framed, pinched-faced man sitting down in the overlarge armchair. “We’re all here for the same purpose, and courtesies aside, let’s get on with it.… We want you out, Kendrick. Do we have to be clearer?”

“Since you’re so adamant, I think you’d better be.”

“All right,” continued the short contributor, his legs barely touching the carpeted floor. “As someone said, let’s be honest—doesn’t cost a damn thing.… We represent a political philosophy every bit as legitimate as you think yours is, but because it’s ours we naturally feel it’s more realistic for the times. Basically, we believe in a far stronger defense-oriented system of priorities than you do for the country.”

“I believe in a strong defense, too,” broke in Evan. “But not in budget-crippling, excessively
offensive
systems where forty percent of the expenditures result in waste and ineffectiveness.”

“Good point,” agreed Kendrick’s undersized opponent from the large chair. “And these areas of procurement will be rectified by the marketplace.”

“But not until billions are spent.”

“Naturally. If it were otherwise, you’re talking about another system of government that doesn’t permit the Malthusian law of economic failure. The forces of the free market will correct those excesses.

Competition, Congressman Kendrick. Competition.”

“Not if they’re rigged in the Pentagon or in those boardrooms where there are too many alumni from the Defense Department.”

“
Hell!
” exclaimed the yachtsman from the fireplace mantel. “If they’re that fucking obvious, let ’em hang!”

“Big Tom’s right,” said the florid-faced Bostonian. “There’s plenty to go around, and those nickel-and-dime colonels and generals are just lubrication, anyway. Get rid of them if you like, but don’t stop the treadmill, for Christ’s sake!”

“Do you hear that?” asked the gold-buttoned blue blazer. “Don’t
stop
until we’re so strong no Soviet leader would even
think
about a strike.”

“Why do you think any of them
would
consider it, consider blowing up a large part of the civilized world?”

“Because they’re Marxist fanatics!” roared the yachtsman, standing erect in front of the mantel, his arms akimbo.

“Because they’re stupid,” corrected the short man from his chair calmly. “Stupidity is the basic road to global tragedy, which means the strongest and the smartest will survive.… We can handle our critics in the Senate and the House, Congressman, but
not
in the administration.
That
we can’t tolerate. Am I clear?”

“You really think I’m a threat to you?”

“Of course you are. You get on your soapbox and people listen, and what you say—very effectively, I might add—is not in our interests.”

“I thought you had such respect for the marketplace.”

“I do in the long run, but in the short run excessive oversight and regulation can cripple the country’s defense with delays. This is no time to throw the baby out with the bath water.”

“Which means throwing away profits.”

“They go with the job, as you so rightly explained regarding the office of Vice President.… Go your way, Congressman. Rebuild your aborted career in Southwest Asia.”

“With what?” asked Evan.

“Let’s start with a credit line of fifty million dollars at the Gemeinschaft Bank in Zurich, Switzerland.”

“That’s very convincing, but they’re only words. Who’s putting up the collateral?”

“The Gemeinschaft knows. You don’t have to.”

It was all Kendrick had to hear. The full weight of the United States government bearing down on a Zurich bank with known connections to men who dealt with terrorists from the Baaka Valley to Cyprus would be enough to break the Swiss codes of secrecy and silence. “I’ll confirm the line of credit in Zurich in thirty-six hours,” he said, getting up. “Will that give you sufficient time?”

“More than sufficient,” replied the small man in the large chair. “And when you have confirmation, you’ll do Vice President Bollinger the courtesy of sending him a copy of your telegram to Chicago irrevocably withdrawing your name for consideration on the national ticket.”

Kendrick nodded, glancing briefly at the three other contributors. “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said quietly and then headed for the library door.

Out in the hallway a black-haired, muscular man with sharp, clean-cut features and the green dot of the Secret Service in his lapel rose from a chair beside a pair of thick double doors. “Good evening, Congressman,” he said pleasantly, taking a step forward. “It’d be an honor to shake your hand, sir.”

“My pleasure.”

“I know we’re not to say who comes and goes around here,” continued the member of the Treasury Department detail, gripping Evan’s hand, “but I may break that rule for my mother in New York. Perhaps it sounds crazy, but she thinks you should be Pope.”

“The Curia might find me lacking.… The Vice President asked me to see him before I left. He said he’d be in his office.”

“Certainly. It’s right here, and let me tell you he’d welcome the interruption. He’s got an irritated man in there with such a short fuse I didn’t trust the machines and nearly strip-searched him. I wouldn’t let him take his bag of paraphernalia inside.”

For the first time, Kendrick saw the garment carryon draped across the chair at the left of the double doors. Beneath it, on the floor, was a bulky black case commonly referred to as a medical bag. Evan stared at it; he had seen it before. The inner screen of his mind was jolted, fragments of images replacing one another like successive explosions! Stone walls in another hallway, another door; a tall, slender man with a ready smile—too ready, too ingratiating for a stranger in a strange house—a
doctor
casually, amusingly stating that he would merely thump a chest and take a sample of blood for analysis.

“If you don’t mind,” said Kendrick, somehow through the mists, realizing that he could barely be heard, “please open the door.”

“I’ve got to knock first, Congressman—”

“No,
please
!… Please do as I say.”

“The Vipe—the Vice President—won’t appreciate that, sir. We’re always to knock first.”

“Open that door,” ordered Evan, his rasping voice a whisper, his eyes wide, fixed briefly on the Secret Service man. “I’ll take full responsibility.”

“Sure, sure. If anyone’s entitled I guess you are.”

The heavy door on the right swung silently back, the words hissed by a tight-throated Bollinger clearly heard. “What you’re saying is preposterous,
insane
!… Yes, what
is
it?”

Kendrick walked through the terrible space and stared at the shocked, panic-stricken face of “Dr. Eugene Lyons.”

“
You!
” screamed Evan, the isolated world inside his head going mad as he lunged, racing across the room, his two hands the claws of a maniacal animal intent only on the kill—the
kill
! “He’s going to
die
because of you—because of
all
of you!”

In a blur of violence, arms gripped him; hands chopped into his head, and knees crashed up into his groin and his stomach, his eyes bruised by experienced fingers. Despite the agonizing pain, he heard the muted screams—one after another.

“I’ve got him! He’s not going to move.”

“Close the door!”

“Get me my bag!”

“Keep everyone
out
!”

“Oh, Jesus, he knows
everything
!”

“What do we
do
?”

“… I know people who can handle this.”

“Who the hell are
you
?”

“Someone who should introduce himself … 
Viper
.”

“I’ve
heard
that name. It’s an insult! Who
are
you?”